Sunday, 22 November 2009
open goal
We’d just about wrestled the game back in our favour at 3-2 having contrived to give away a two goal lead. Rain raked across the park in waves, the pitch cut up, the game was stretched at both ends with the ball needing little encouragement to slip and slide on a greasy surface. Five minutes to go, one of our youngsters broke down the right and I sprinted down my left flank to support. He did well, beat a player and made it to the byline. I screamed at the back post for him to square back it across the six yard box. He passed strongly: it skidded and bobbed off the uneven surface, cutting out the goalkeeper at his near post and missing a striker and defender between us. It was coming to me, the goal was open, I was five yards out. I excitedly hurled myself towards the ball Any contact and surely the game was over, that would be it. Glory! A goal. A comfortable final few minutes to close the game out. I hurled, slid, firm right boot contact, but wrong, too much. I watched it balloon over the bar and I turned face down in the mud, hands on head, groaning at the aberration.
24 hours of Cambodia – Killing fields hangover
The evening began with our guide taking us to a local restaurant a short walk down the Phnom-Penh street from our hotel. Deep-fried honeyfish formed the centrepiece of an exquisite meal in a cosy traditional Cambodian restaurant, and then came the singing and dancing children at the front of the small, narrow room. The restaurateur apparently orchestrates this performance weekly: about a dozen desperately poor streetchildren entertain a largely western audience with traditional singing, dancing, music and dress. If you had described the scene to me beforehand, I would have scoffed at the suggestion I could have been moved by it. As it was, I was stunned by its undeniable sensory beauty. The music, instruments and singing blended together in a demanding yet measured way which didn’t take long to rhythmically penetrate. Tastefully decorated dress and make-up for the girls; who ordered intricately choreographed dancing in a businesslike way over their tiringly unruly partners: the unfailingly amusing and hapless boys. Beaming smiles at the close of each dance made the heart of this fickle tourist melt entirely.
Donations to the children’s war-torn families were remarkable by dint of not being aggressively demanded: a meagre money box in the corner if you want to donate. It’s not even passed round. To anyone capable of human feeling, anyone wilted by what they’ve witnessed, to generously donate seems as obvious as breathing.
The dancing reflected, and perhaps exaggerated my sense of the Cambodian people. Given the terrors of their extremely recent history - the Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot’s regime, the still perpetual danger of liberally scattered landmines - it would be entirely understandable for them to be defensive, cautious, cold, nervous: especially the children. Or for them to carry weighty chips on their shoulders for all that they’ve been subjected to. Yet by and large, they are enchantingly warm, disarmingly open and generous people whose characters suggest nothing of their history. Instead, a brave, unacknowledged, just-get-on-with-it attitude which is forever cheerful.
Senses regathered, I was jubilant to find that the England-Austria World Cup qualifier was on the television of most bars along the street. Aside from our party’s American pair - who seemed to be opting out a lot - we headed back from the restaurant in the direction of the hotel, to a Vespa themed bar. There we witnessed a disappointing but functional 1-0 England win in which David Beckham was sent off again. Duncan was cheered to see a framed Glasgow Rangers shirt adorning one of the walls. By the time the England match reached its conclusion, everyone in our group except Shane and I had gone back to the hotel. As the final whistle sounded in Old Trafford, I asked my relatively new Australian companion: “Another, compadre? Somewhere else?” Our eyes mutually twinkled at the prospect and desire for more liquor.
But I lacked cash and the machines in a nearby traveller-targeted Australian branch wouldn’t give me anything. Our hired tuk-tuk man took us down a quiet street to the distinctly unpromising looking door of what looked like a telephone booth. Regular enough looking cashpoint coming out the wall, but I was still highly sceptical. I nervously inserted a card, was heartened by English instructions, pressed buttons and, miraculously, it gave. Shane and I were elated: we could drink!
Our tuk-tuk man pulled us towards a busy looking bar in what must have been a central bar area, a short distance into town, and away from the river. Taking stools at the bar, we began speaking to ex-pats either side of us. Shane to an American “dude,” who had something to do with the running of the bar; me to a Scottish maths lecturer at the university here. A friendly chap, good conversation, but I was equally enjoying our proximity to the decoratively manicured barmaids.
At 2am the bar closed and we went to another, the local Walkabout bar. I was amazed the chain was this wide-reaching, unless of course it wasn’t part of it chain and coincidentally shared its name with the Australian chain.
If increasingly blurry memory serves correctly, Walkabout was a large, semi-circular, half empty 24-hour affair over two floors. And it was quite dark. I somehow managed to persuade an initially reluctant, vaguely sad looking local girl to come and sit with us at the bar. Using schoolboy French so broken it could have been strewn across continents, I tried to focus on what I was saying and her face, rather than her quite incredible chest and curvaceous body. Precisely what we spoke of I’m not sure. Possibly too much of myself as she was less forthcoming, though I’m sure I learned something of her. Her name, for example - which I struggled to pronounce so avoided using, before forgetting altogether. Somehow, through our numerous communication obstacles.. was that? ..did she? I think we began flirting.
Aware of Shane’s isolation, we headed upstairs to play pool, by then not in the greatest state of sobriety. Despite this, we made an average attempt at doubles. A startlingly beautiful local introduced herself to us, and more specifically Shane. Retiring from the pool games to different ends of the untended upstairs bar, Shane and I grew more familiar with our respective ladies - who had given no indication of being prostitutes. I was more certain of my companion because of her original reluctance to join us. She kissed with a strange pecking fashion, and expertly massaged my back. After a time she went to the toilet and I stretched my legs with a walk to the balcony area.
It was light, morning, daytime, market stalls had begun to open below. Shit. How had that happened? A glance at my watch confirmed it was little after 6am. Headfucked by the revelation, I anxiously considered next moves and reported my finding of the globe’s over-hasty rotation to Shane. He definitely wanted action with his friend but was going to book a room in a different hotel. I was less sure. I didn’t want to take her back to our room because I knew I was likely to get caught, busted, thrown off the tour, and off my next tour which was booked through the same company. But I didn’t want the expense of another room. Shane had always seemed quite frivolous with his money, including spending a ludicrous amount on that local guide in Saigon. It wasn’t exactly the safest country in the world. Would she have a terrifying father, or brothers? Might they want to kill me if I..?
Shane and I blundered drunkenly out of the bar with the girls clinging to our arms and squinted into the bright daylight. A minute’s conference later we separated, taking tuk-tuks in different directions. My driver was the same one who had had taken us into this area of town several hours ago. He had waited. He’d waited?! Since when? How much would he want? Fuck, my head was beginning to fuzz and I was still reeling from the discovery of it being morning. And there was the small issue of the girl sitting to my left, holding onto me for dear life as the tuk-tuk chugged onwards. Could I..? The risks were way too big, yet still I was burning for that amazing chest. In all fairness, her face was passable, a squashed nose its obvious focus point. Not on a par with Shane’s new friend. But she did have that perfect unblemished skin, a wonderful body, and those breasts... Idiot, I reprimanded myself. I asked her several times if she wanted to come back with me, hoping she’d have changed her mind and solve my nasty dilemma for me, hoping she’d have thought about it, said “rationally speaking, no, I’ve come to my senses and now I think about it I don’t think...” But of course she couldn’t form a sentence anything like that, so she just leeched onto me pathetically and whimpered “yes,” a hand high up my thigh. She insisted that she did want to come back to the hotel. She didn’t want to go home. Fuck, I thought, as the tuk-tuk approached our hotel. It was 6.30. No, I couldn’t.. Less to do with morals than the potential of seriously screwing up the rest of my trip. I paid the tuk-tuk man most of what I had left in my wallet for waiting, gave the remainder, probably not enough, to her, to get her home, and left. She wasn’t happy with me and possibly also worried about any consequences of staying out all night. A glance over my shoulder as I headed for the hotel door revealed that she had quickly clicked into sensible mode, rejecting the tuk-tuk we had travelled in (possibly an inflated touristy tuk-tuk - although they all look the same to us) in search of another. Watching her and her wonderful body independently swing away from me, I stepped sideways back through the hotel door.
Feeling like a fuckwit, confused and ashamed of myself, a small shard of something way back in my marshland head applauded me, was pleased and righteous at my decision. I passed an unmanned reception (unmanned! nobody would have seen us), silent but for the humming air conditioning unit, and pressed a button to summon the elevator. Regrets that I hadn’t taken her up were potentially smaller than regrets I could have suffered if I had. With that meagre consolation and a less coherent groan I flopped onto my bed.
A knock at the door woke me not enough hours later at 11am. I opened it to find a widely grinning Shane: that lucky ballsy Australian bastard. He had considerately knocked in case I had company. All had gone blissfully to plan for him. As beautiful naked as she had been clothed. And apparently a squealer. I felt sharp jabbing jealousy as I slumped back into my bed and learned details. He was disappointed in me, would have been so proud of me if I’d properly got my hands on those tits, muyte! - and he’s been pounding the regret into me since. Still think I was right not to, but can’t help wondering what if..? If, even in pissed, headswirling state, if I hadn’t been so painfully rational, sensible, boring, dull... then...
We’ve been flagging all day, much to the amusement of the rest of our party. I felt horribly ill as we walked around the Khmer Rouge torture prison, S21 early this afternoon. Like I could easily be sick at any moment. I snuck glances in discreet, obscured corners where I could quickly spring through necessary contingency. They were barren, cold blocky buildings we walked around, like the crappest, derelict department of your college: empty but for torture weapons, wasted beds, and galleries of images which didn’t serve to slow my somersaulting stomach. I recovered a little with the aid of sleep on the minibus which is touring us around. By the time we reached the surprisingly underwhelming killing fields - various small swampy ponds covering mass graves across a large field: a modest, tall stone monument at its centre - I was able to speak again without worrying it would agitate stomach acids. The fields offered little indication of the recent atrocities it had witnessed. Children played on a makeshift rope-swing over a muddy puddle, giggling in hysterical delight when one of them was brave enough to pick his feet up from the floor.
As we left the fields for the minibus, I offered the remaining quarter of my stale bottle of water to a small gathering of children who were working a neighbouring rice-field. They had been magnetically attracted to the fence by the passing western tourists, like ducks to someone dishing out bread. I offered the bottle to a tiny little girl at the centre of the group and gestured that she should share it with her clamouring friends. Contorting my empty hand back through the wire meshed fence, I was ashamed to sense my resemblance to a zoo visitor: a sometimes inescapable feeling here. Trying to contain yet more powerfully gassy burps, I pondered this as we walked back to the vehicle: if there’s more virtue in staying and working, or volunteering.
We’ve now returned to the hotel for much needed rest, Shane and I intermittently exchanging further details and blurry memories of last night while I write this. Imagining our behaviour wouldn’t be looked on favourably, we’re telling the rest of the group that we returned to the hotel together at 5am. I’ve been sworn to secrecy as he has a girlfriend back home, though the likelihood is we’ll never see each other again after this week. He says he’s not very literate, doesn’t do computers at all and is doing this trip en route home after a year in London. Our plans for this evening run as far as dinner - I haven’t eaten anything all day and my stomach gurgles are growing violent - followed by an early night. Tomorrow we meet in the lobby at 5.30am for an early flight to Siem Reap, Cambodia’s second city.
_______
circa October 2005
Donations to the children’s war-torn families were remarkable by dint of not being aggressively demanded: a meagre money box in the corner if you want to donate. It’s not even passed round. To anyone capable of human feeling, anyone wilted by what they’ve witnessed, to generously donate seems as obvious as breathing.
The dancing reflected, and perhaps exaggerated my sense of the Cambodian people. Given the terrors of their extremely recent history - the Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot’s regime, the still perpetual danger of liberally scattered landmines - it would be entirely understandable for them to be defensive, cautious, cold, nervous: especially the children. Or for them to carry weighty chips on their shoulders for all that they’ve been subjected to. Yet by and large, they are enchantingly warm, disarmingly open and generous people whose characters suggest nothing of their history. Instead, a brave, unacknowledged, just-get-on-with-it attitude which is forever cheerful.
Senses regathered, I was jubilant to find that the England-Austria World Cup qualifier was on the television of most bars along the street. Aside from our party’s American pair - who seemed to be opting out a lot - we headed back from the restaurant in the direction of the hotel, to a Vespa themed bar. There we witnessed a disappointing but functional 1-0 England win in which David Beckham was sent off again. Duncan was cheered to see a framed Glasgow Rangers shirt adorning one of the walls. By the time the England match reached its conclusion, everyone in our group except Shane and I had gone back to the hotel. As the final whistle sounded in Old Trafford, I asked my relatively new Australian companion: “Another, compadre? Somewhere else?” Our eyes mutually twinkled at the prospect and desire for more liquor.
But I lacked cash and the machines in a nearby traveller-targeted Australian branch wouldn’t give me anything. Our hired tuk-tuk man took us down a quiet street to the distinctly unpromising looking door of what looked like a telephone booth. Regular enough looking cashpoint coming out the wall, but I was still highly sceptical. I nervously inserted a card, was heartened by English instructions, pressed buttons and, miraculously, it gave. Shane and I were elated: we could drink!
Our tuk-tuk man pulled us towards a busy looking bar in what must have been a central bar area, a short distance into town, and away from the river. Taking stools at the bar, we began speaking to ex-pats either side of us. Shane to an American “dude,” who had something to do with the running of the bar; me to a Scottish maths lecturer at the university here. A friendly chap, good conversation, but I was equally enjoying our proximity to the decoratively manicured barmaids.
At 2am the bar closed and we went to another, the local Walkabout bar. I was amazed the chain was this wide-reaching, unless of course it wasn’t part of it chain and coincidentally shared its name with the Australian chain.
If increasingly blurry memory serves correctly, Walkabout was a large, semi-circular, half empty 24-hour affair over two floors. And it was quite dark. I somehow managed to persuade an initially reluctant, vaguely sad looking local girl to come and sit with us at the bar. Using schoolboy French so broken it could have been strewn across continents, I tried to focus on what I was saying and her face, rather than her quite incredible chest and curvaceous body. Precisely what we spoke of I’m not sure. Possibly too much of myself as she was less forthcoming, though I’m sure I learned something of her. Her name, for example - which I struggled to pronounce so avoided using, before forgetting altogether. Somehow, through our numerous communication obstacles.. was that? ..did she? I think we began flirting.
Aware of Shane’s isolation, we headed upstairs to play pool, by then not in the greatest state of sobriety. Despite this, we made an average attempt at doubles. A startlingly beautiful local introduced herself to us, and more specifically Shane. Retiring from the pool games to different ends of the untended upstairs bar, Shane and I grew more familiar with our respective ladies - who had given no indication of being prostitutes. I was more certain of my companion because of her original reluctance to join us. She kissed with a strange pecking fashion, and expertly massaged my back. After a time she went to the toilet and I stretched my legs with a walk to the balcony area.
It was light, morning, daytime, market stalls had begun to open below. Shit. How had that happened? A glance at my watch confirmed it was little after 6am. Headfucked by the revelation, I anxiously considered next moves and reported my finding of the globe’s over-hasty rotation to Shane. He definitely wanted action with his friend but was going to book a room in a different hotel. I was less sure. I didn’t want to take her back to our room because I knew I was likely to get caught, busted, thrown off the tour, and off my next tour which was booked through the same company. But I didn’t want the expense of another room. Shane had always seemed quite frivolous with his money, including spending a ludicrous amount on that local guide in Saigon. It wasn’t exactly the safest country in the world. Would she have a terrifying father, or brothers? Might they want to kill me if I..?
Shane and I blundered drunkenly out of the bar with the girls clinging to our arms and squinted into the bright daylight. A minute’s conference later we separated, taking tuk-tuks in different directions. My driver was the same one who had had taken us into this area of town several hours ago. He had waited. He’d waited?! Since when? How much would he want? Fuck, my head was beginning to fuzz and I was still reeling from the discovery of it being morning. And there was the small issue of the girl sitting to my left, holding onto me for dear life as the tuk-tuk chugged onwards. Could I..? The risks were way too big, yet still I was burning for that amazing chest. In all fairness, her face was passable, a squashed nose its obvious focus point. Not on a par with Shane’s new friend. But she did have that perfect unblemished skin, a wonderful body, and those breasts... Idiot, I reprimanded myself. I asked her several times if she wanted to come back with me, hoping she’d have changed her mind and solve my nasty dilemma for me, hoping she’d have thought about it, said “rationally speaking, no, I’ve come to my senses and now I think about it I don’t think...” But of course she couldn’t form a sentence anything like that, so she just leeched onto me pathetically and whimpered “yes,” a hand high up my thigh. She insisted that she did want to come back to the hotel. She didn’t want to go home. Fuck, I thought, as the tuk-tuk approached our hotel. It was 6.30. No, I couldn’t.. Less to do with morals than the potential of seriously screwing up the rest of my trip. I paid the tuk-tuk man most of what I had left in my wallet for waiting, gave the remainder, probably not enough, to her, to get her home, and left. She wasn’t happy with me and possibly also worried about any consequences of staying out all night. A glance over my shoulder as I headed for the hotel door revealed that she had quickly clicked into sensible mode, rejecting the tuk-tuk we had travelled in (possibly an inflated touristy tuk-tuk - although they all look the same to us) in search of another. Watching her and her wonderful body independently swing away from me, I stepped sideways back through the hotel door.
Feeling like a fuckwit, confused and ashamed of myself, a small shard of something way back in my marshland head applauded me, was pleased and righteous at my decision. I passed an unmanned reception (unmanned! nobody would have seen us), silent but for the humming air conditioning unit, and pressed a button to summon the elevator. Regrets that I hadn’t taken her up were potentially smaller than regrets I could have suffered if I had. With that meagre consolation and a less coherent groan I flopped onto my bed.
A knock at the door woke me not enough hours later at 11am. I opened it to find a widely grinning Shane: that lucky ballsy Australian bastard. He had considerately knocked in case I had company. All had gone blissfully to plan for him. As beautiful naked as she had been clothed. And apparently a squealer. I felt sharp jabbing jealousy as I slumped back into my bed and learned details. He was disappointed in me, would have been so proud of me if I’d properly got my hands on those tits, muyte! - and he’s been pounding the regret into me since. Still think I was right not to, but can’t help wondering what if..? If, even in pissed, headswirling state, if I hadn’t been so painfully rational, sensible, boring, dull... then...
We’ve been flagging all day, much to the amusement of the rest of our party. I felt horribly ill as we walked around the Khmer Rouge torture prison, S21 early this afternoon. Like I could easily be sick at any moment. I snuck glances in discreet, obscured corners where I could quickly spring through necessary contingency. They were barren, cold blocky buildings we walked around, like the crappest, derelict department of your college: empty but for torture weapons, wasted beds, and galleries of images which didn’t serve to slow my somersaulting stomach. I recovered a little with the aid of sleep on the minibus which is touring us around. By the time we reached the surprisingly underwhelming killing fields - various small swampy ponds covering mass graves across a large field: a modest, tall stone monument at its centre - I was able to speak again without worrying it would agitate stomach acids. The fields offered little indication of the recent atrocities it had witnessed. Children played on a makeshift rope-swing over a muddy puddle, giggling in hysterical delight when one of them was brave enough to pick his feet up from the floor.
As we left the fields for the minibus, I offered the remaining quarter of my stale bottle of water to a small gathering of children who were working a neighbouring rice-field. They had been magnetically attracted to the fence by the passing western tourists, like ducks to someone dishing out bread. I offered the bottle to a tiny little girl at the centre of the group and gestured that she should share it with her clamouring friends. Contorting my empty hand back through the wire meshed fence, I was ashamed to sense my resemblance to a zoo visitor: a sometimes inescapable feeling here. Trying to contain yet more powerfully gassy burps, I pondered this as we walked back to the vehicle: if there’s more virtue in staying and working, or volunteering.
We’ve now returned to the hotel for much needed rest, Shane and I intermittently exchanging further details and blurry memories of last night while I write this. Imagining our behaviour wouldn’t be looked on favourably, we’re telling the rest of the group that we returned to the hotel together at 5am. I’ve been sworn to secrecy as he has a girlfriend back home, though the likelihood is we’ll never see each other again after this week. He says he’s not very literate, doesn’t do computers at all and is doing this trip en route home after a year in London. Our plans for this evening run as far as dinner - I haven’t eaten anything all day and my stomach gurgles are growing violent - followed by an early night. Tomorrow we meet in the lobby at 5.30am for an early flight to Siem Reap, Cambodia’s second city.
_______
circa October 2005
Friday, 13 November 2009
could i steal a chip?
Over the past several weeks I’ve become friendly with a dynamic, fast-talking young Scottish guy. We originally met at a work event but, although our professional (sorry for the word) synergies weren’t quite aligned, or at least not yet, our personalities gelled quickly. Over a couple of subsequent meetings a bantery rapport was developed and we riffed off each other at various networking events. Being a general misanthrope, this doesn’t happen all too often.
His girlfriend joined us in town towards the end of yesterday evening. I had met her briefly once before and she’d seemed fine and open after initially being guarded and wary. In our subsequent meetings he was always wary of his duties to her: curfews, her checking up, calling, texts. Even the one evening when she was away and we went out, she kept calling, checking back until fairly late into the evening.
Now I’ve never known an evening out to improve with the introduction of girlfriends half way through. Whether it’s two or twelve guys, a dynamic is agreed, established and settled. Throw in a handful of girlfriends and it becomes disturbed and upset with new obligation. Particularly if there’s a number mismatch, as there always is in my presence - being terminally single.
She joined us grudgingly yesterday evening, that much was clear, yet she apparently couldn’t go home alone or let her boyfriend stay out. She looked grouchy on arriving but slowly thawed. On leaving the bar, the three of us were buoyed by the idea of food, so went to a nearby Burger restaurant in Soho.
Seated here, a couple of young girls sat down at the small table next to us. One left for the toilet, leaving another on her own: American, confident, animated, full of beans. Glances had been exchanged when they were originally seated, and enviously checked out our food.
Her friend momentarily gone, she turned to us again and a bowl of half empty chips. “God, that looks good,” she said. “I am SO hungry, could I steal a chip?” This was when my friend’s girlfriend sneered and emitted such ice I thought all our burgers would immediately go cold. “Sure!” my friend said, I nodded and smiled, it was fine with me too. But she was already recoiling at the unspoken venom fired in her direction. “Er, no it’s totally fine. I'm getting bad vibes now, I’ll.. sorry.” Awkwardness swept the two tables. Apart from the space around my friend’s girlfriend, who sat there nonplussed with her curling upper lip.
“Well put yourself in my position,” she urged. “If the roles were reversed, and it was a guy who had come over like that.” At the time, I couldn’t quite do that empathy. Too much was going on in the conversation. I just shrugged. Ok, it was fine, you scary bitter young lady. Her boyfriend chuckled, though possibly equally taken aback by his girlfriend.
Walking back through town towards Waterloo half an hour later I considered it again: if the roles had been reversed. Two girls, one guy. Same situation. Let’s presume that makes me part of the couple (a ludicrous concept). The only reason I would have been so cold to an approaching male would have been if the relationship were new and / or I was still insecure in it. Surely you just have to enjoy an established level of trust and comfort not to feel threatened like that? Back the fuck off, dickhead-vibes would only have radiated from me if it was an early date and I was feeling insecure about how I was matching up. Perhaps they seem more established and settled than they are. Who can say?
Or maybe she’s just another surly ice madam.
His girlfriend joined us in town towards the end of yesterday evening. I had met her briefly once before and she’d seemed fine and open after initially being guarded and wary. In our subsequent meetings he was always wary of his duties to her: curfews, her checking up, calling, texts. Even the one evening when she was away and we went out, she kept calling, checking back until fairly late into the evening.
Now I’ve never known an evening out to improve with the introduction of girlfriends half way through. Whether it’s two or twelve guys, a dynamic is agreed, established and settled. Throw in a handful of girlfriends and it becomes disturbed and upset with new obligation. Particularly if there’s a number mismatch, as there always is in my presence - being terminally single.
She joined us grudgingly yesterday evening, that much was clear, yet she apparently couldn’t go home alone or let her boyfriend stay out. She looked grouchy on arriving but slowly thawed. On leaving the bar, the three of us were buoyed by the idea of food, so went to a nearby Burger restaurant in Soho.
Seated here, a couple of young girls sat down at the small table next to us. One left for the toilet, leaving another on her own: American, confident, animated, full of beans. Glances had been exchanged when they were originally seated, and enviously checked out our food.
Her friend momentarily gone, she turned to us again and a bowl of half empty chips. “God, that looks good,” she said. “I am SO hungry, could I steal a chip?” This was when my friend’s girlfriend sneered and emitted such ice I thought all our burgers would immediately go cold. “Sure!” my friend said, I nodded and smiled, it was fine with me too. But she was already recoiling at the unspoken venom fired in her direction. “Er, no it’s totally fine. I'm getting bad vibes now, I’ll.. sorry.” Awkwardness swept the two tables. Apart from the space around my friend’s girlfriend, who sat there nonplussed with her curling upper lip.
“Well put yourself in my position,” she urged. “If the roles were reversed, and it was a guy who had come over like that.” At the time, I couldn’t quite do that empathy. Too much was going on in the conversation. I just shrugged. Ok, it was fine, you scary bitter young lady. Her boyfriend chuckled, though possibly equally taken aback by his girlfriend.
Walking back through town towards Waterloo half an hour later I considered it again: if the roles had been reversed. Two girls, one guy. Same situation. Let’s presume that makes me part of the couple (a ludicrous concept). The only reason I would have been so cold to an approaching male would have been if the relationship were new and / or I was still insecure in it. Surely you just have to enjoy an established level of trust and comfort not to feel threatened like that? Back the fuck off, dickhead-vibes would only have radiated from me if it was an early date and I was feeling insecure about how I was matching up. Perhaps they seem more established and settled than they are. Who can say?
Or maybe she’s just another surly ice madam.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Cenotaph Sunday
Cenotaph Sunday siphons
with shuffling scuse me bumps down pedestrianised Whitehall;
Red
Silence shaking cannon ball booms;
distant murmured prayers, hymns, anthems, pipes;
Green
Warm applause while big screens magnify
proud smiles, lost limbs, wheelchairs, sticks and age:
memory,
under relentless dank grey threat,
betwixt pointlessly changing traffic lights
with shuffling scuse me bumps down pedestrianised Whitehall;
Red
Silence shaking cannon ball booms;
distant murmured prayers, hymns, anthems, pipes;
Green
Warm applause while big screens magnify
proud smiles, lost limbs, wheelchairs, sticks and age:
memory,
under relentless dank grey threat,
betwixt pointlessly changing traffic lights
Sunday, 1 November 2009
consolation goal
“Do you want to risk aggravating the injury and knock yourself back for another two weeks, or chance it? No, leave it for tomorrow then, we should be ok.” This is what my football team boss told me over several ales on Friday evening. The following morning I received a text message saying someone had dropped out. Could I play?
The first half hour I felt tight and paranoid about seriously extending. Up against a well put together striker: swift, slight and skilful, if mercifully not large or physical. Those opening minutes of needing to press and chase saw me reluctantly obey still tight feeling, cold legs. I’d stretched and warmed as much as possible beforehand, but they still warned against going flat out.
We were three goals down inside half an hour. Towards the end of the first half and into the second they slowly heated, became malleable. Coaxing increased pace, I became confident the troublesome member wouldn’t buckle. Occasional forages forward from centre back encouraged. A dangerously lofted ball into the box caused panic, a speculative long distance effort had the power without the direction.
Although it was long over as a contest, towards the end of the game I ventured forward more frequently, feeling the attacking appetite and confidence return. We were pushing, they were sitting deep, confident of suppressing any threat.
We sensed the opportunity to reduce the deficit, but little seemed to be reaching our strikers from the midfield. Collecting a rapid return pass from our right back midway into the opponents half, I darted towards the penalty area and into space, still not closed down. Another touch to settle, approaching the far right side of the penalty area, thirty yards out, I swung hard. Distance meant power’s priority over accuracy. The connection felt good but proved too strong as it faded and dipped a short distance over the crossbar and far post.
Then we attacked down the left, the gap of space in the middle ever apparent. I jogged into it as our striker received the ball on the left hand side of the penalty area. He niftily jigged between two defenders as I screamed at him to release the pass. Cleverly committing a third to the challenge, he then squared it across into the space with a toe poke. One touch to settle, twenty five yards out, right side of the penalty area: a few yards closer and more central than the opportunity before. Part of my brain must have instinctively decided I could prioritise accuracy over power and chance a side foot. It’s not a decision I remember making. Contact was true and the power perfect. I dodged a late onrushing defender to see the ball appear to first arc outside the rod of the post before curling back inside, little to no margin between post and ball. The goalkeeper dived half heartedly, slipping to his knees on realising that he couldn’t get close.
7-1!
Having never scored a goal as good as this in a competitive match and averaging one goal a season at best, I wanted to celebrate. But I wasn't able. Firstly down to shock. It had actually gone in. It was legal. The goal, a very nice goal, was given. I scored it. I fucking scored it. I myself me, was responsible for that sumptuous strike. Discreetly jubilant fist to self in private celebration and a wry smile. That was all.
Then the realisation of its complete futility. We’d been battered for most of the game, several early goals probably my fault. Mine meant nothing. It reduced that deficit by a single goal, making the score 7-1. We trotted back to our half for the kick-off, chuckling between ourselves like I’d just revealed I was fluent in Chinese.
Even so, that rarest of sensations, seeing it curl inside the post and glide against the netting: a sweet and precious thing.
The first half hour I felt tight and paranoid about seriously extending. Up against a well put together striker: swift, slight and skilful, if mercifully not large or physical. Those opening minutes of needing to press and chase saw me reluctantly obey still tight feeling, cold legs. I’d stretched and warmed as much as possible beforehand, but they still warned against going flat out.
We were three goals down inside half an hour. Towards the end of the first half and into the second they slowly heated, became malleable. Coaxing increased pace, I became confident the troublesome member wouldn’t buckle. Occasional forages forward from centre back encouraged. A dangerously lofted ball into the box caused panic, a speculative long distance effort had the power without the direction.
Although it was long over as a contest, towards the end of the game I ventured forward more frequently, feeling the attacking appetite and confidence return. We were pushing, they were sitting deep, confident of suppressing any threat.
We sensed the opportunity to reduce the deficit, but little seemed to be reaching our strikers from the midfield. Collecting a rapid return pass from our right back midway into the opponents half, I darted towards the penalty area and into space, still not closed down. Another touch to settle, approaching the far right side of the penalty area, thirty yards out, I swung hard. Distance meant power’s priority over accuracy. The connection felt good but proved too strong as it faded and dipped a short distance over the crossbar and far post.
Then we attacked down the left, the gap of space in the middle ever apparent. I jogged into it as our striker received the ball on the left hand side of the penalty area. He niftily jigged between two defenders as I screamed at him to release the pass. Cleverly committing a third to the challenge, he then squared it across into the space with a toe poke. One touch to settle, twenty five yards out, right side of the penalty area: a few yards closer and more central than the opportunity before. Part of my brain must have instinctively decided I could prioritise accuracy over power and chance a side foot. It’s not a decision I remember making. Contact was true and the power perfect. I dodged a late onrushing defender to see the ball appear to first arc outside the rod of the post before curling back inside, little to no margin between post and ball. The goalkeeper dived half heartedly, slipping to his knees on realising that he couldn’t get close.
7-1!
Having never scored a goal as good as this in a competitive match and averaging one goal a season at best, I wanted to celebrate. But I wasn't able. Firstly down to shock. It had actually gone in. It was legal. The goal, a very nice goal, was given. I scored it. I fucking scored it. I myself me, was responsible for that sumptuous strike. Discreetly jubilant fist to self in private celebration and a wry smile. That was all.
Then the realisation of its complete futility. We’d been battered for most of the game, several early goals probably my fault. Mine meant nothing. It reduced that deficit by a single goal, making the score 7-1. We trotted back to our half for the kick-off, chuckling between ourselves like I’d just revealed I was fluent in Chinese.
Even so, that rarest of sensations, seeing it curl inside the post and glide against the netting: a sweet and precious thing.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
a birthday: child pirates to streetfights
A long birthday awash with people and places began at 10am, coffee with a once-made acquaintance in a café on Soho’s Golden Square. A deep-thinking fellow freelancer who successfully divides his time between southern American states and London, he often provides engaging chat and food for thought. I hadn’t expected it to be hugely constructive in any immediate business sense, and it wasn’t, but it still felt like an hour well-spent.
Needing pirate fancy dress, I ducked into a likely looking arcade doorway on Leicester Square. From the street it invited passers-by to an assortment of garish tourist shops, accessory stores, toy shops and an amusement arcade. Escalators took me up a level and I quickly found myself circling a hellish labyrinth of arcade games with no Down escalators. My frustration grew to a nightmareish backdrop of loud bleeping, tinny circus music, machine whirs, flashing lights and practically no people. On finally finding a combination of frozen escalators and steps, I decided to give up on the costume mission and head over to Notting Hill for the coach out of town.
A blissful few moments on the comfortable top deck offered me the chance to absently admire fluffy clouds, read and reply to birthday messages from seldom seen friends and listen to lulling new music. Catching up on emails then exerted continued stress about work and my ongoing failure to secure much needed support.
Lunch was being served as I arrived, my nephew glorying in the attention of his pirate-themed 3rd birthday. We bid each other happy birthday and exchanged gifts before playing with his latest plastic. Already there were both sets of confusingly named grandparents (I’m yet to completely memorise who’s Nan and who’s Grandma). I opened my own gifts and cards before taking him around the suburban block on his new scooter. When hoards of children aged from ten months to five years appeared in the house, I disappeared to take a work call. Standing in a three year old’s bedroom as screams peeled from the floor below, I wore an ear-ring, false eye-patch, held a toy cutlass, but sounded consummately professional. Back downstairs the children appeared to be multiplying. I walked to the next room to see a previously unnoticed baby crawling along the floor, or a slightly older tot charging at precarious pace with a polystyrene sword. There was a sprinkling if not directly proportionate number of mums now too. It alarmed me how instantly the unknown children wanted to play with me, trust and distrust something not yet learned. Frightening. I almost wanted to teach them there and then. I enjoyed a watery bland conversation with one of the mothers; she had friends near where I live, which was nice. The kids ate their pirate party meal and the host parents spontaneously put on an elaborate pirate sketch where my brother played a scary evil pirate. The children bought into it completely, terrified by his creepy leering as he suddenly appeared behind the patio window.
Children and parents began to dissipate around half five and I was gone not long after. A cumbersome cardboard box containing newly framed pictures offered a not inconsiderable challenge during my many-legged return trip: coach, walk, tube, tube, bus, walk. By the end, it was on the point of disintegration, and my arm on the point of falling off. Having returned to the flat, I immediately adorned my walls with the new, still intact pictures, opened the first beer of my birthday and admired their effect. A half hour break from travel, then town summoned me again.
A friend insisted on heading for the swanky bar of a client: it’d be cool, and good. It’ll probably be quite expensive but don’t worry, it’s your birthday so I’ll pay for the first round of drinks then we’ll go, he said. We joined a short line outside the venue. Twenny pand admission, a stony faced female doorwoman said once we’d advanced to the head of the queue. Dyou wanna? My friend asked. Not much, my shaking head, flared nostrils and pursed lips told him. Aw, c’mon! he persuaded. It’ll be fun. Hrm, if we must. We entered and a cashier told him they didn’t take cards. I gave her forty pounds. Forty fucking pounds. The bar was impossibly loud, ludicrously expensive and full of shiny young hipsters. I realised I’d actually been there before for an equally ghastly work event and felt every single one of my years. We chanced upon professional contacts and began impromptu networking. A couple of drinks and many closely cupped ears later, the guys left us, I expressed my misgivings and we left.
A cashpoint visit, payback and dithery squeltch around a rainy Soho later saw us settle on a marginally more sedate late license bar. Here we chatted to a range of people, the first of whom were attracted by my eager friend’s fast-handed card tricks: attractive Australians, two female who we chatted with, two male who we didn’t; a pair of attractive but extremely cold young Norwegian girls - one looked permanently disgusted; and another pair of young, not so attractive locals. By this time my energy levels were waining. My friend was his regular supercharged, duracell bunny-style self, still rapidly talking in ebullient fashion to practically anyone. When we’d met earlier in the evening he was closing a conversation with two elderly theatregoers on the street. They’d considered him warmly on parting, although it was obvious their acquaintance hadn’t extended longer than ten minutes. At 3am lights came on in the bar and we left, swaying up towards Oxford Street, coming dangerously close to the “I love you mate” cliché before parting with a manly clinch at my nightbus stop.
Leaning sleepily against a shuttered shop front window behind the bus stop, two men approached at pace, cutting strangely skittish, bedraggled shapes. Their short fight broke out under my nose in frittering flapping style, like birds competing over a breadcrumb. None of those movie fist-to-face noises. No shpucks, more like a large flag flapping in a strong wind. People stepped back and away, nervous of the sudden violence. I stayed leaning against the shop, rather too close, feeling tired, drunk and oddly removed. The stockier, more confident man took the upper hand as his wiry rival fell, floored, taking more blows as he went and delivering few counters. It was over, the winner was clear and he took a step back. The loser managed to quickly rise and flee as his assailant accepted a fallen mobile from one of the three score of onlookers. However, the device appeared not to have been his. He held it high then smashed it down hard onto Oxford Street, yelling more threatening abuse as his vanishing competitor disappeared beyond Tottenham Court Road tube station. Brief entertainment in what turned out to be a long wait, and even longer night bus ride back. A couple of old school 80s punks with appropriately flamboyant hair had a falling out around Kensington. The female became vocal and hit the window hard in frustration, stirring a number of passed out passengers from drunken slumber. Her mohicaned partner looked away, head in hands, crestfallen.
Needing pirate fancy dress, I ducked into a likely looking arcade doorway on Leicester Square. From the street it invited passers-by to an assortment of garish tourist shops, accessory stores, toy shops and an amusement arcade. Escalators took me up a level and I quickly found myself circling a hellish labyrinth of arcade games with no Down escalators. My frustration grew to a nightmareish backdrop of loud bleeping, tinny circus music, machine whirs, flashing lights and practically no people. On finally finding a combination of frozen escalators and steps, I decided to give up on the costume mission and head over to Notting Hill for the coach out of town.
A blissful few moments on the comfortable top deck offered me the chance to absently admire fluffy clouds, read and reply to birthday messages from seldom seen friends and listen to lulling new music. Catching up on emails then exerted continued stress about work and my ongoing failure to secure much needed support.
Lunch was being served as I arrived, my nephew glorying in the attention of his pirate-themed 3rd birthday. We bid each other happy birthday and exchanged gifts before playing with his latest plastic. Already there were both sets of confusingly named grandparents (I’m yet to completely memorise who’s Nan and who’s Grandma). I opened my own gifts and cards before taking him around the suburban block on his new scooter. When hoards of children aged from ten months to five years appeared in the house, I disappeared to take a work call. Standing in a three year old’s bedroom as screams peeled from the floor below, I wore an ear-ring, false eye-patch, held a toy cutlass, but sounded consummately professional. Back downstairs the children appeared to be multiplying. I walked to the next room to see a previously unnoticed baby crawling along the floor, or a slightly older tot charging at precarious pace with a polystyrene sword. There was a sprinkling if not directly proportionate number of mums now too. It alarmed me how instantly the unknown children wanted to play with me, trust and distrust something not yet learned. Frightening. I almost wanted to teach them there and then. I enjoyed a watery bland conversation with one of the mothers; she had friends near where I live, which was nice. The kids ate their pirate party meal and the host parents spontaneously put on an elaborate pirate sketch where my brother played a scary evil pirate. The children bought into it completely, terrified by his creepy leering as he suddenly appeared behind the patio window.
Children and parents began to dissipate around half five and I was gone not long after. A cumbersome cardboard box containing newly framed pictures offered a not inconsiderable challenge during my many-legged return trip: coach, walk, tube, tube, bus, walk. By the end, it was on the point of disintegration, and my arm on the point of falling off. Having returned to the flat, I immediately adorned my walls with the new, still intact pictures, opened the first beer of my birthday and admired their effect. A half hour break from travel, then town summoned me again.
A friend insisted on heading for the swanky bar of a client: it’d be cool, and good. It’ll probably be quite expensive but don’t worry, it’s your birthday so I’ll pay for the first round of drinks then we’ll go, he said. We joined a short line outside the venue. Twenny pand admission, a stony faced female doorwoman said once we’d advanced to the head of the queue. Dyou wanna? My friend asked. Not much, my shaking head, flared nostrils and pursed lips told him. Aw, c’mon! he persuaded. It’ll be fun. Hrm, if we must. We entered and a cashier told him they didn’t take cards. I gave her forty pounds. Forty fucking pounds. The bar was impossibly loud, ludicrously expensive and full of shiny young hipsters. I realised I’d actually been there before for an equally ghastly work event and felt every single one of my years. We chanced upon professional contacts and began impromptu networking. A couple of drinks and many closely cupped ears later, the guys left us, I expressed my misgivings and we left.
A cashpoint visit, payback and dithery squeltch around a rainy Soho later saw us settle on a marginally more sedate late license bar. Here we chatted to a range of people, the first of whom were attracted by my eager friend’s fast-handed card tricks: attractive Australians, two female who we chatted with, two male who we didn’t; a pair of attractive but extremely cold young Norwegian girls - one looked permanently disgusted; and another pair of young, not so attractive locals. By this time my energy levels were waining. My friend was his regular supercharged, duracell bunny-style self, still rapidly talking in ebullient fashion to practically anyone. When we’d met earlier in the evening he was closing a conversation with two elderly theatregoers on the street. They’d considered him warmly on parting, although it was obvious their acquaintance hadn’t extended longer than ten minutes. At 3am lights came on in the bar and we left, swaying up towards Oxford Street, coming dangerously close to the “I love you mate” cliché before parting with a manly clinch at my nightbus stop.
Leaning sleepily against a shuttered shop front window behind the bus stop, two men approached at pace, cutting strangely skittish, bedraggled shapes. Their short fight broke out under my nose in frittering flapping style, like birds competing over a breadcrumb. None of those movie fist-to-face noises. No shpucks, more like a large flag flapping in a strong wind. People stepped back and away, nervous of the sudden violence. I stayed leaning against the shop, rather too close, feeling tired, drunk and oddly removed. The stockier, more confident man took the upper hand as his wiry rival fell, floored, taking more blows as he went and delivering few counters. It was over, the winner was clear and he took a step back. The loser managed to quickly rise and flee as his assailant accepted a fallen mobile from one of the three score of onlookers. However, the device appeared not to have been his. He held it high then smashed it down hard onto Oxford Street, yelling more threatening abuse as his vanishing competitor disappeared beyond Tottenham Court Road tube station. Brief entertainment in what turned out to be a long wait, and even longer night bus ride back. A couple of old school 80s punks with appropriately flamboyant hair had a falling out around Kensington. The female became vocal and hit the window hard in frustration, stirring a number of passed out passengers from drunken slumber. Her mohicaned partner looked away, head in hands, crestfallen.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
one day of Scotland
I wound myself up, growing increasingly pissed off, stressed, driving faster and more aggressively. Darkness had now fallen, completely cloaking a mountainside which ambivalently transmitted its bleak chill. I clicked off the thought-cluttering stereo, finally found the full beam headlights and continued twisting the vehicle upwards through the Highland range. My hands were becoming faintly numb, knuckles iced into a rigid grip of the steering wheel. I didn’t really know where I was going. This was to be expected if you set off on a loosely planned roadtrip without booking any accommodation beforehand.
AA signs on hotels are meant to signify quality, but to me only signified expense. Growling out loud, sick of myself, cold, tired and stressed, I found a straight area of round in which to safely execute a three-point turn, turned the car around and headed back to the hotel, ready to take the hit.
What ate at me was knowing I’d made a bad call: to turn away from that crusty hostelly place earlier, with its charming, colourfully dressed local receptionist, a full house and immediate locality that seemed populated and would be screening the Champions’ League football I’d been anticipating all day. I could have had enough drams to blur out any lumpy discomfort of my surroundings, slept, then left early in the morning without any major wallet dent. Instead I’m here: half way up a mountain in the middle of the Highlands with no other buildings for miles and everything ball-achingly expensive because it’s designed for affluent geriatric hikers from Surrey.
I’ve opted out of dinner even though I didn’t really have lunch; intermittent snacking on supplies fended off any proper hunger. Although it is extremely comfortable here - nice furniture, shiny en-suite, thick carpets – unfortunately they have no telly signal. So no football.
These gnarky issues amassed to momentarily make me forget what a good day I’d had until around 4/5pm, when I first began tentatively knocking at B&B doors on the Isle of Skye.
Which had been another growing irritation: constant knocking on doors like a pauper, seeing if they had any room at the inn. Nervous caution in the faces of ladies of a certain age, who’d clearly rather not thanks, no matter how much I beam at them like a simpleton, desperately trying to seem normal. My gaul at simply being a young single male is unavoidable; at not being a couple. It seems to be unusual and almost an offence. “Ooh, we only do doubles sorry.” Or when they advertise vacancies then blank you, saying there’s none because they’re not sure about you. I’m fairly ordinary looking and middle class, what more d’you want?! What d’you think I’ll do?! Irreparably stain and tear bed linen by excessively violent wanking? Shit all over the walls? Steal the wardrobe? What?
There was no such uncertainty in this posh mountainside AA place. Its unpredictable young Indian host was too busy to be bothered as he hurriedly checked me in. Curious host for a place which clearly prides itself on its traditional Scottish character.
*
Until 4 or 5pm, today had been good. Better than good, it had amazed. Early this morning a passable cooked breakfast at my Elgin B&B fuelled me for the careful drive through a light sprinkling of frozen snow and on towards Inverness. A few righted wrong turns eventually spat me over a sequence of bridges in a loop around the city. Ahead lay the Western Highlands with its proper, mansized landscapes. I stopped briefly in North Kessoch, a bridge and large loch to one side of a panaroma which swept round to present the first handsome mountains. It was tranquil and pretty, but would pale in comparison with the grandiose new panoramas I was about to see.
These following landscapes caused photographic lunacy. A rare, gloriously sunshiney day saw me snapping ravenously at apparently infinite jawdropping scenery: from staggeringly beautiful snow clad mountain tops, to scenic roads lined with dense fir trees and backed by those knowing, wise ranges. Driving at moderately high speeds, I thrust my right hand out the window to blindly capture and hope, nervous of slipstream wind prising the camera from my grasp, flying away and shattering into tiny pieces on the road behind.
[caption id="attachment_413" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="into the Highlands"]
[/caption]
Sunshine and pleasant warmth barely relented all day, even near the upper snowy areas of the mountains. A spontaneous two hour hike to one peak, all alone, left me feeling like I owned the planet. That was until I stumbled across two sets of peculiarly dispiriting recent bootprints in the snow. I listened to fittingly epic Sigur Ros soundscapes as my feet crunched on, buzzing off the environment, grateful for being able to do this kind of thing. Even if only once a year. Even if my day-to-day life generally sucks, I can still use this experience and ones like it to haul myself through crappy tower block days.
[caption id="attachment_414" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="all mine"]
[/caption]
Driving on west, the next to move me was a shimmering giant loch which lay between jagged glens to the far west, in the direction of Skye. Having dropped a gear to climb one short, steep incline, it presented itself. It dug deep into the smoothed land, perfectly cultivated. I wanted to stop, gape and walk but didn’t dare as the curling road was narrow and the sheer cliffs to one side wore landslide warnings. It probably became quickly impassable when the snow arrived. So I drove on, winding up and down as I skirted the Loch’s edge, stopping just once at a viewpoint which offered faraway views of seemingly minature, dispersed working farmhouses on the opposite side of the loch. Whisps of smoke from the houses gamely fought to scale from the Loch’s valley, while the great canvas of water below sparkled, cradling tiny puttering fishing boats, knowing its allure and the mystery of its contents. Its waters narrowed and led out further west, towards the ocean. A clean, new bridge structure connected my endless ribbon of road to the luminous Isle Of Skye. I wanted to explore it further, but time was ticking and I needed to start thinking about where to sleep, and if I could find somewhere showing the football.
Back on the mainland I stopped again at a beach, enticed by an irresistible sunset over the water. There I sat and pondered whether people naturally gravitate to one of three things in their 20s:
[caption id="attachment_415" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="sunset reflection"]
[/caption]
experience – travel, sport, clubs, doing as much stuff as possible;
things – getting life sorted: career, property, cars;
other people – love, relationships, domesticity, experience through others.
Obviously combinations are possible, but don’t most lean more towards one than the others? Could be a nonsense, but sometimes it seems cleanly classifiable like that.
Just returned from the warm, cosy expensive bar here. I had one excruciatingly priced pint, blanched at the menu and read my book. The cheapest meal on the menu was pie and chips – which I’d had last night in a soulless chain pub in a damp Elgin. I'm sure it would be of a better standard here, but there the food had looked forlorn, like it could’ve been splutted onto the plate from a considerable height. I almost felt sorry for eating it.
__________
original circa March 08
AA signs on hotels are meant to signify quality, but to me only signified expense. Growling out loud, sick of myself, cold, tired and stressed, I found a straight area of round in which to safely execute a three-point turn, turned the car around and headed back to the hotel, ready to take the hit.
What ate at me was knowing I’d made a bad call: to turn away from that crusty hostelly place earlier, with its charming, colourfully dressed local receptionist, a full house and immediate locality that seemed populated and would be screening the Champions’ League football I’d been anticipating all day. I could have had enough drams to blur out any lumpy discomfort of my surroundings, slept, then left early in the morning without any major wallet dent. Instead I’m here: half way up a mountain in the middle of the Highlands with no other buildings for miles and everything ball-achingly expensive because it’s designed for affluent geriatric hikers from Surrey.
I’ve opted out of dinner even though I didn’t really have lunch; intermittent snacking on supplies fended off any proper hunger. Although it is extremely comfortable here - nice furniture, shiny en-suite, thick carpets – unfortunately they have no telly signal. So no football.
These gnarky issues amassed to momentarily make me forget what a good day I’d had until around 4/5pm, when I first began tentatively knocking at B&B doors on the Isle of Skye.
Which had been another growing irritation: constant knocking on doors like a pauper, seeing if they had any room at the inn. Nervous caution in the faces of ladies of a certain age, who’d clearly rather not thanks, no matter how much I beam at them like a simpleton, desperately trying to seem normal. My gaul at simply being a young single male is unavoidable; at not being a couple. It seems to be unusual and almost an offence. “Ooh, we only do doubles sorry.” Or when they advertise vacancies then blank you, saying there’s none because they’re not sure about you. I’m fairly ordinary looking and middle class, what more d’you want?! What d’you think I’ll do?! Irreparably stain and tear bed linen by excessively violent wanking? Shit all over the walls? Steal the wardrobe? What?
There was no such uncertainty in this posh mountainside AA place. Its unpredictable young Indian host was too busy to be bothered as he hurriedly checked me in. Curious host for a place which clearly prides itself on its traditional Scottish character.
*
Until 4 or 5pm, today had been good. Better than good, it had amazed. Early this morning a passable cooked breakfast at my Elgin B&B fuelled me for the careful drive through a light sprinkling of frozen snow and on towards Inverness. A few righted wrong turns eventually spat me over a sequence of bridges in a loop around the city. Ahead lay the Western Highlands with its proper, mansized landscapes. I stopped briefly in North Kessoch, a bridge and large loch to one side of a panaroma which swept round to present the first handsome mountains. It was tranquil and pretty, but would pale in comparison with the grandiose new panoramas I was about to see.
These following landscapes caused photographic lunacy. A rare, gloriously sunshiney day saw me snapping ravenously at apparently infinite jawdropping scenery: from staggeringly beautiful snow clad mountain tops, to scenic roads lined with dense fir trees and backed by those knowing, wise ranges. Driving at moderately high speeds, I thrust my right hand out the window to blindly capture and hope, nervous of slipstream wind prising the camera from my grasp, flying away and shattering into tiny pieces on the road behind.
[caption id="attachment_413" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="into the Highlands"]
[/caption]Sunshine and pleasant warmth barely relented all day, even near the upper snowy areas of the mountains. A spontaneous two hour hike to one peak, all alone, left me feeling like I owned the planet. That was until I stumbled across two sets of peculiarly dispiriting recent bootprints in the snow. I listened to fittingly epic Sigur Ros soundscapes as my feet crunched on, buzzing off the environment, grateful for being able to do this kind of thing. Even if only once a year. Even if my day-to-day life generally sucks, I can still use this experience and ones like it to haul myself through crappy tower block days.
[caption id="attachment_414" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="all mine"]
[/caption]Driving on west, the next to move me was a shimmering giant loch which lay between jagged glens to the far west, in the direction of Skye. Having dropped a gear to climb one short, steep incline, it presented itself. It dug deep into the smoothed land, perfectly cultivated. I wanted to stop, gape and walk but didn’t dare as the curling road was narrow and the sheer cliffs to one side wore landslide warnings. It probably became quickly impassable when the snow arrived. So I drove on, winding up and down as I skirted the Loch’s edge, stopping just once at a viewpoint which offered faraway views of seemingly minature, dispersed working farmhouses on the opposite side of the loch. Whisps of smoke from the houses gamely fought to scale from the Loch’s valley, while the great canvas of water below sparkled, cradling tiny puttering fishing boats, knowing its allure and the mystery of its contents. Its waters narrowed and led out further west, towards the ocean. A clean, new bridge structure connected my endless ribbon of road to the luminous Isle Of Skye. I wanted to explore it further, but time was ticking and I needed to start thinking about where to sleep, and if I could find somewhere showing the football.
Back on the mainland I stopped again at a beach, enticed by an irresistible sunset over the water. There I sat and pondered whether people naturally gravitate to one of three things in their 20s:
[caption id="attachment_415" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="sunset reflection"]
[/caption]experience – travel, sport, clubs, doing as much stuff as possible;
things – getting life sorted: career, property, cars;
other people – love, relationships, domesticity, experience through others.
Obviously combinations are possible, but don’t most lean more towards one than the others? Could be a nonsense, but sometimes it seems cleanly classifiable like that.
Just returned from the warm, cosy expensive bar here. I had one excruciatingly priced pint, blanched at the menu and read my book. The cheapest meal on the menu was pie and chips – which I’d had last night in a soulless chain pub in a damp Elgin. I'm sure it would be of a better standard here, but there the food had looked forlorn, like it could’ve been splutted onto the plate from a considerable height. I almost felt sorry for eating it.
__________
original circa March 08
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