Land of Fire and Ice (Iceland)

Iceland – Reykjavik ~2018

Life can move in very strange ways, and sometimes has a sense of weird irony that isn’t always immediately clear. Case in point, just a couple of weeks ago I was traipsing around Iceland (the budget frozen goods store) in a typical slovenly fashion, wearing scruffy sweatpants and a grim look like most of the shop’s inhabitants – my happiness levels raised only momentarily by the occasional must-buy purchase; cheesy garlic breads £1, double chocolate ice cream £1.50, enormous multi-pack of crisps £2. Time machine it to a few days ago and I am stood in actual Iceland, wearing no scruffy sweatpants (yes, I was wearing clothes, I’m not a maniac), marvelling at the natural beauty of the landscape and soaking in the living and breathing personality that this wonderful part of the world expresses.

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Not to ruin the picture I’ve just painted or anything…but I was also super pissed at how expensive actual Iceland is compared to frozen chicken nuggets Iceland. £10 for one diddy bottle of beer whut whuttt?! You could buy a whole deep-fried farm for that!

Iceland, the fabled “Land of Ice and Fire”, could not be more appropriately named…and it has to be said right off the bat that I give absolute props to any of the (just over) 300,000 people that despite all logic and common sense have decided to look pulsing volcanoes, feet upon feet of snow, regular sandstorms and much more not so fun stuff in the face and state, “I’m still staying. Fuck you.” After all, we all know the kind of effect that weather can have on people mentally, not to mention the physical obstacles of lava melting your toes.

*Insert moment of silence for all the lava toes lost out there*

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It seems that people in general are just as impressed and curious as we were beforehand: Reykjavik, which comprises the majority of Iceland’s population and trade, has been flourishing in recent years, with record numbers now visiting to see what all of the fuss is about. A record 1.73 million in 2016, up 34% from the previous year. These tourists probably come for the Blue Lagoon and the Northern Lights, sure, but I would hope they stay for the breathtaking fjords and the rainbows that dance precariously across waterfalls, for the fresh clean air and the naturally heated pools, for the 100% renewable electricity and tap water straight from a glacier…and then…when all of these incredible features have them stumped as to how they’ll ever return to ordinary cosmopolitan life…leave. Because how can any normal person afford to keep spending so much on soup and bread?

In all seriousness returning to ordinary life after adventuring around such a majestic part of the globe, has had be down in the dumps in a major way. I’ll probably try to cure this feeling by revisiting Iceland at some point…for some cheesy garlic breads, double chocolate ice cream, and an enormous multi-pack of crisps.

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The magic of Iceland, a place in which apparently a large percentage of the populous believe in trolls and elves, continues to play on my mind. There is a sense of unknown in such a place, an unreliability that doesn’t often accompany life in towns and cities – save petty drama at work, or news that someone you thought was great in a movie turns out to actually be a bit of a nightmare. There’s a freedom in not having the shackles of corporate life weighing quite so heavily on your conscience – because things like staying alive take precedent (big shout out to my fiancée for navigating many a snow storm and sheer drop on the road in a car the size of a cereal box).

Iceland = two big frosty thumbs up from me – just make sure you pack your thermals and remortgage your house to have enough cash to get a round of beers in.

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Bikes, and Bros (Greece)

Greece – Zakynthos ~2011

It’s somewhat of a rite of passage for young adults in England to go on a “Lad’s/Lasses’ Holiday” at some point…at least where I come from anyway. Now these holidays are unlike any holiday you will likely ever experience, for a few reasons…but are still pretty simple to sum up – so how about I go ahead and do that, just so we are in no doubt:

Young people. Sun burn. Intoxicants of every description – and a strict code which makes sightseeing, and the absorbing of any cultural elements of the country unimaginable.

In short, the unfortunate place becomes an absolute wrecking ground of glow sticks, bubble machines, and cheap booze for a few blazing weeks of debauchery…and likely spends the rest of the year recovering and rebuilding…until it’s time to go again. 

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Despite not being particularly my thang, back in 2011 I was returning from the US with a rather handsome refund for all of my various student exchange costs…and as coincidence would have it my old school friends were planning a holiday and wanted me to join. I agreed without a second thought. In fact I’m so stupid that I didn’t even know I was going to be getting this aforementioned refund until the last second, so it felt like a free holiday. Sort of like finding a tenner in an old pair of jeans.

The trip started off at an ungodly hour, something about letting the Mammy turtles hide their eggs in the sand without the distraction of a blaring jet plane beneath them. It’s sort of understandable, I mean they’re turtles after all – not the Easter bunny, so they need more help…but it still made for very groggy red eyes indeed.

The coach from the airport took forever. It circled the island dropping off a few people at a time at various hotels, as twatty Liverpudlian sing-songs rang out through the slightly ajar windows. We were one of the last ones…typical. Some guy who looked like Gareth Gates (if he was slightly overweight and worked at a bingo hall) kept standing up and shouting out the hotel names whenever we were getting close – I was told he was our holiday rep, and that he had a strange Pokemon sounding name like Zippy, Zappy, or Ziggy. He was also making all sorts of suggestions about “getting on it”, “getting rat-arsed” and “getting mashed”. None of this seemed particularly appealing, or at least not with him anyway. We rolled our eyes, and made a few comments at his expense – mostly surrounding his obnoxious haircut. In that moment we vowed to keep ourselves to ourselves.

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We rose at different times the next day…that’s the problem with a group; some want to lie in bed (which is fine, you’re on holiday after all) and some want to go out and see things. The issue lies with doing both of these things together – as unless you wheel the sedentary people around on a wheely hospital bed then you inevitably have to split up. The day passed by beautifully; lying by the swimming pool, iced glasses in the freezer ready to be filled with draught beer (great idea) , and all in the company of friends I have known for years. Bliss. 

Then Zappy Ziggoles (or whatever) turned up. A dark cloud would have passed over the swimming pool – but he was far too short to block out the sun in any meaningful way. However he still put a dampener on things; he started saying something about drinking tables, or drinking under tables, or something like that…which I have never really understood as I much prefer being above my tables and using them as intended – as a place to rest my glass. There was some sort of “partaaaay” and we best get involved or we will miss out – and blah blah blah – please go away and leave us alone. Please Zigglyzoof, please.

That night, that first fateful night…was an absolute trainwreck. And no, it was nothing to do with Mr. Ziggy. I wish I could blame him, but I can’t. We very quickly got separated as a group, despite the relatively small street on which most of the main bars and clubs were located…cheap drinks that taste like strawberry flavoured piss served in luminous buckets will do that to people. In between the fist-fights, blaring music, and people selling unconvincing knock-off Rolex watches – there unsurprisingly wasn’t much time for  cordial conversation and quiet relaxation time.

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We lost one of our members…and he didn’t turn up until the next day – looking like a cast member from The Walking Dead, but with slightly more deterioration. Our first instinct was to insult him (naturally) but after that little period had passed we asked what had actually happened to him. The jokes stopped after that, in place of head shakes and wide shocked eyes.

Let’s just say he had found something which promised to make things a fun party, but then the party ended up being dreadful. So like if you were invited to an all you can eat doughnut event – but then it was in fact a suicide pact party. That’s not exactly it, but it sort of is. Essentially what you need to know is, whilst we were dancing on tables and being sick in a back alley, he was running wide-eyed through the streets and later attempting to drown himself because he “felt he probably deserved it”. Scary. In fact if it wasn’t for the help of two strangers, affectionately referred to as “The Guardian Angels” for the rest of the trip, he may have been a goner. They had ran after him, seeing that he was in…distress (to say the least)…and dragged him from the depths of the water and back to the hotel. This apparently took some time as his directions kept changing.

That was the first night – and we had booked for two weeks. We naturally started to pace ourselves, well not really, but we were at least aware of how bad it could be if we weren’t at least a little bit careful. The only time I wanted to be in the sea was when I was cooling off from the unforgiving sun, not begging for forgiveness while I plunged myself into some sort of biblical punishment. In lieu of the latter we began to go out and experience more; we hired quad bikes and roamed around the island – seeing the old part of town and marvelling at the best views, we actually began to talk to people and share our stories, we even took Zippy Zapplin up on a few of his suggestions…and had a good time doing it too. 

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The two weeks felt like a lifetime – but also as if they had passed in a second, it was weird. I often think back to those moments spent laughing and living life; shaving our heads into weird pineapple looking cuts, having to spend two weeks sharing a double bed with a dude (so we could keep the best room), not caring what day it was…

I mean holidays are great, but having amazing people to enjoy that time with – that’s priceless. (As long as you don’t do the whole drowning thing, obviously)

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By the way, yes – I’m back. Apologies for my absence my dear friends. You see I have recently started a wonderful new job (content writing/social media stuffs for a small charity), and that has taken up a lot of my time both physically and mentally. I’m trying to find a balance. Hope you lovely people are all doing well! I’ve truly missed you.

Hobbit Holes (N. Zealand)

New Zealand ~ Matamata– 2016 / Middle Earth ~ Hobbiton – 2016

If you are a person who is deserving of friends and life in general then you probably love The Lord of the Rings. If you don’t then you are likely the person at parties who people try to avoid; and/or you enjoy boring said people to death by talking about different types of cling-film and the different uses it can provide.. It appears obvious to suggest this but please seek professional help – you are a certified creepozoid.

Thankfully I am not one of these people. In fact I am entirely enchanted by the world of LOTR...it certainly seems a lot better than the real world, a place jam-packed with subway maps, timetables, and mortgage payment plans. I mean why would a person want to live in an apartment building when they could live in a Hobbit hole? Why would you fly with Easy Jet when you could ride on a Great Eagle? Why would…well the list goes on; and every question is as necessary as it is ridiculous. Call it market research or perhaps just fan-boy admiration but I had to go and look at Tolkien’s world for myself.

And so I headed to New Zealand to live out this little dream: AND WHEN I SAY LITTLE DREAM, I MEAN HUGE.

Once I’d arrived in Auckland I noticed straight away how polite and friendly people were; they would say things with a smile, would engage in humorous conversation with total strangers, and give help without any expectation of anything in return. Lovely. They were not however Hobbits…they weren’t even elves for that matter, and this was most disappointing. They were just plain old men, who I had learned from the trifecta of books, films, and Top-Trumps cards, are the most susceptible to the ring’s powers and not to be trusted. They make great burgers though, so that’s one pretty decent bonus.

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I decided to look further afield – and booked a day tour to Hobbiton; the land of Bilbo Baggins, The Green Dragon Pub, and the pitter-patter of countless hairy feet (hopefully).

The landscape during the journey was breathtaking. Despite the stranger next to me not sharing the arm rest, and the faint wiff of egg constantly stinging my nostrils I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a ride in a bus as much. There were rolling green hills as far as my eyes could see, deep blue skies strewn with powerful clouds, and flashes of wildlife which I had never seen before (no, not dragons). It actually reminded me of home, of England…aside from the palm trees of course.

Once I got there I was overcome with excitement, and so were the other members of the group – half of which confessed they had never seen or read The Lord of the Rings…this surprised me but I worked out rather quickly they must be under the hold of some sort of enchantment. Perhaps born from magic, but more likely the effect of the wonderful luscious hills of New Zealand they had witnessed on the way over here. But that wasn’t to be the end of the day’s spectacles…

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We spent the day winding through the pathways of Hobbiton, hearing amusing and surprising little factoids from the lovely tour guide:

“…the party scene took two days and they used a low percent alcohol ale so the cast wouldn’t get as drunk…”

“…many of the supporting cast in Hobbiton were just the cast member’s children, who were staying here anyway during the filming…”

“…there are actually no Hobbits. They are not real. John please, stop asking…wait…stop crying…please!”

Wasn’t a huge fan of that last one. But after the extensive tour, and many many photos to document the once in a lifetime experience…

…we retired to the Green Dragon Pub; the famous haunt of Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry.  This was fortunate timing as the heavens had just begun to open, and soon the muddy pathways would become sludge – so off we scurried as fast as we could, all the way to the inviting warmth of the pub’s wood fire. Here we were told that due to it being “Good Friday” they were not allowed to sell us the lovely amber ale and dark stout…what exactly was good about that totally escapes me, but it was with a sigh of relief that I then heard we would be given one for free. Technically they are not selling it, so perhaps that is okay. She didn’t sound sure, but I couldn’t have cared less and grabbed it before she changed her mind!

On the way back to the city I popped in my tunes (The Lord of the Rings’ soundtrack as planned) and took pleasure in the beautiful scenery once more, which was now a fiery orange sky as the impending night battled with what was left of the day. It had been everything I had wanted*, and more…and there was a joy to finally doing something which I had dreamed about for so long.

Actually I say everything, but I would have certainly loved to see some Hobbits. So it’s more like “everything I had wanted, but less.” Despite this it was absolutely spectacular, and if you ever get the chance, GO!

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Useless tuk-tuk Tour (Cambodia)

Cambodia ~ Siem Reap – 2016

I know it’s a little bit easy and uninspiring to do this, but I still feel it’s always a decent option to take a tour when you are in a new foreign country. I’m aware this goes against all of the present wisdom which suggests you should just cycle off into the sunset without a map and perhaps you will stumble to the moon or make friends with a talking frog who regales you with all of the native knowledge you never thought you would learn. I know that, but I am still standing by my stance. Tours are okay, okay?

And no you don’t have to pull your socks up to your knees, or wear Crocs to be allowed in the group…any age can apply and these are simply suggested uniform items as opposed to mandatory.

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Anyway aside from that this tours are a great way to swot up on history and hidden parts of the land’s culture; and there’s also a comfort (especially for the solo traveller) in going with a few other people. You’re a lot less likely to be jumped and glassed in the face as some nameless rogue runs away with your passport or currency wallet – and anyway even if that was to happen the OAPs would without doubt back you up, clubbing the assailant with their walking canes until he cries for forgiveness and/or offers cut price beer. Some of that medication they take is powerful X-Men shit, I tell you truthfully!

So in short yet again, tours are okay. Let’s get on with it.  

With this in mind, and my overriding fear of Cambodian dead babies still ingrained in my core…I knew that the only way to go would be to have a nice tour of the nearby temples (Angkor Wat, Angkor…I forget now; ESSENTIALLY THE TOMB RAIDER PLACES THOUGH) and perhaps befriend an old widow or two in the process; we could play bingo afterwards, or I could learn how to knit. Who needs a talking frog when you have (imaginary) old widow friends? Exactly. If things went to plan this was going to be a dream…

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I ended up setting up the tour through the hotel after reading horrendous story after horrendous story of how horribly miserable a time people had experienced by rolling up to tour companies on the spot. This is actually a top tip because these days with the booking sites, Trip Advisor and whatever else, places are really afraid of suffering due to a bad review. So if I am driven off a cliff, or made to dance naked in return for the safe return of my camera during the tour then I won’t be so happy, and traumatised people don’t make for very positive reviewers. So they only try and go with those they trust, makes sense. YA SEE! GOOD!

The fella turned up early, and he was friendly enough – we shook hands, and I thought “why aren’t your hands sweaty, it’s boiling here?” but didn’t say that because a.) he had limited English and b.) that would be a very very odd thing to say to a person upon your first meeting. The reason for the early start was that I am white. Whiter than the whitest whites they always brag about on cleaning commercials…I am ready and willing (for a fee) to be a spokesperson for such advertisements – “WANT YOUR SHEETS WHITER THAN WHITE” then point to me. It’d be great. They’d make millions. Call me!

The guy, Vrim…or Vrom, no…Vhrin – V. Let’s just call him V, found it pretty funny when I told him we are on a timer and then pointed to my skin. I didn’t want to be out all day in the baking hot sun, and the factor 50 I had lathered on my skin could only do so much…it’s not magic after all. It doesn’t suddenly turn me into a glistening beach ready day walker, sadly. 

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It was immediately obvious that it was just going to be myself on the tour, as my new pal V pointed to an empty tuk-tuk as opposed to a cosy air-con bus. What’s a tuk-tuk? Well to those that don’t know it’s essentially a motorbike that someone has attached a little back wagon bit for to wheel people rather precariously about in. Think…Julius Ceaser’s chariot but a present day economy version. Fun at first mind, but soon I felt too exposed and unprotected from the Tattoine-esque climate.

On the journey I saw many other bewildered tourist faces in the same situation. Some of them nodded as if to say: “oh, you too huh?” And then it was back to eyes forward as we slipped around on the seat and gasped for air in the thick hot wind (I have never experienced hot wind until Cambodia). The tour as it was wasn’t exactly a tour…at all. It was just a guy, who again was very pleasant, just pointing at things on the way every so often:

“That is museum…that is museum…and that is museum…”

Well yeah V mate I figured that as they all say museum on the front in English. But thanks anyway! Around the temples he would stop outside and then hand up a hammock in his tuk-tuk and take a rest shooing me away with a smile to have a look around…here I was met with other guys offering tours of the temple…I thought I was already on one! Whaaat?! Once I had seen enough of one spot we’d go on to the next one, sometimes he would offer little tid-bits on the way which was largely lost to mumbles due to the fact he was wearing a thick visor…

“…hummmbleee-ummmm-gummm-king temphugksosos-the king…”

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And for some reason this made ME feel bad, because at least he was giving some effort – so I would just reply with oooohs and aaaahhhs, just repeating back anything which I gathered into a statement and hoping that would satisfy him. Something completely moronic like: “aaah the king…so that’s why it’s a good one. The king would get a good one.” 

I would sound like a pandering knobhead even if I was talking to a three year old, or a dog with mental difficulties – never mind a guy just trying his best with limited knowledge.

As it turns out all you need in Cambodia, and south-east Asia at large is a bike. If you have a bike then you can give a tour. I know most will tell you that perhaps you should have studied ancient history at university, or at least be well read in the subjects and have a deep interest in it…but no. That is certainly an option, but the other option is to just get a bike – attach a seat to the back – and then charge for tours. It’s basically the same fucking thing, don’t be ignorant please.

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Drowsy Layover (Malaysia)

Malaysia ~ Kuala Lumpur – 2016

You often make bad decisions whilst travelling; especially so in hindsight. And of course by you I really mean me…and by me I mean a great lumbering buffoon who is simply trying to blame someone else for all his problems, or at the very least involve you in these calamities. Awfully sorry for dragging you down into these dark depths with me, and I do hope you’ll forgive me as we fall into the abyss of it all together hand in hand…it’s just that I don’t like the thought that I am just a sole wandering moron devoid of any grasp of how to make good choices (even if that is strictly true according to my stories). 

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You see the other day I could have just flown directly from South Korea to Thailand. That seems normal, that seems like the thing that a person should do if they are wanting to fly from South Korea to Thailand…they book a flight and then…they follow that up by taking said flight from Thailand to South Korea. 

Why is this even a fucking story, I hear you ask? Well…let’s get to it shall we…

The things is, instead of doing the aforementioned typical and sane thing – I opted for something which to most would be absolutely unthinkable (and rightly so). I decided to defy conventional wisdom and make a short(ish) stop in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia…after all why not see another place, and find out what it has to offer? The idea came to me from an article I’d read where this fella intentionally gets unusually tedious and long-way-around-ish transfers…this guy is extreme, having day trips in Canada, breakfast in Italy, a few hours shopping in Paris and – well you get the point, he goes through all of that inconvenience just to see a little more. But I thought it was pretty cool, actually I was blown away by it, and he instantly became a hero in my eyes. 

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So after following some of his tips I found my first long layover would be in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia…haven’t ever been there so, wonderful! I’m already well on my way (or so I thought)! Oh, and about seven or eight hours! That’s enough time to have a good look around! I can see the sights and meet the people, try the food and –

KNOCK KNOCK – hi, don’t mean to be a negative Nancy or a cautious Chris, but shouldn’t you check the time you get in on the night because if – SHHHHHHHHHHH! Just because John, you could end up – SHHHHHHH SELF, SHHHHH!

So yeah, that was me. Not even sparing a thought to consider how crucial the actual arrival time could be with such delicate arrangements. I actually ended up realising it at the last second, but still felt positive…despite the fact I would be getting in at 22:10…

This wouldn’t have been all that bad, but I didn’t end up getting my bag back until fucking 23:00. What the hell were they doing with it all of that time? I swear they had been having a little five a side football kick around using my bag as one of the goalposts, or had perhaps been rifling through my possessions hoping to stumble across my stash of treasure (you’ll never get it you dirty bastards I’ll take it to my grave!) but whatever it was it meant that I was now very pushed for time. After all, it’s a 30 or 40 minute journey into the city itself.

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Despite how infeasible it all looked, I thought I would ask the lady at the desk anyway: “Hello there!” – hai sir. (They say sir a lot in Malaysia and I think I like it, makes me feel rather regal and important, rather than smelly and worthless – which is what you truly are after a long haul flight)…“When is the last train back to the airport from the city please?” 00:30…”Ahh – do you think it would be crazy for me to go now – and then come back?” Very crazy sir. “Oh.” Very, very crazy. “Got it – it’s crazy…because the thing is I have a flight at 7am but -” 

Sir, it’s too crazy with bag and distance of this, and time is crazy…it’s just – “Okay yeah, yup, thank you, got it…” I said with a sigh and the best fake smile I could muster.

And so it was there and then that my little dream died. It was probably the most polite version of a dream dying ever to come about, but it was still a dream dying. It was also insufferably hot at 28 degrees, and the air was thick and grossly stifling…sticky sweat meant everything stuck to everything, and I had to lumber about the airport like a lost cause until the morning. It felt like there had been an apocalypse. 

That is until I realised there was a 24 hour McDonalds. I don’t remember one of those in Mad Max, so I guess it was only right to be thankful. I almost crumbled at the three or four in the morning mark, seriously considered getting a taxi driver to ride me around just to make time pass in a more interesting fashion…but YouTube just about did the job instead…

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Anyway sir, let’s put that in the lessons learned book, shall we sir?

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Blood Sucking Leeches! (Nepal)

Nepal ~ Pokhara – 2014

It was just another day in Nepal, like any other. You know – toilet trouble and searing heat…these are the things that a tourist encounters most vividly whilst spending time in this country. You feel like you want to go places, and that you should do things…but you are scared that on route your backside will explode into your underpants, or that you will faint from heat exhaustion due to the sun, which seems friend only to mosquitoes and a band of overzealous rickshaw drivers…

“REEECKSHAW SAR, REEECKSHAA-“

“ARGHHHHHH, NO, NO, NO, JUST LET ME CURL UP AND DIE IN FUCKING PEACE!”

Continue reading “Blood Sucking Leeches! (Nepal)”

Fringe Benefits (Scotland)

Scotland ~ Edinburgh – 2014

The Edinburgh Festival Fringe is the biggest arts festival in the entire world – the thing is huge! It has over 250 venues that are jam-packed with over 45, 000 varied performers! It is truly a colossal occasion that triples the city’s population in that single August month…year in, year out! So if you can put up with shuffling at a snail’s pace behind old fogies desperate to take a photo of every lamp post they see (WHY, GOD WHY?! IT IS A LAMP POST!!! MOOOOOOOOOVE!!!!), then it is certainly worth a look in!

Disclaimer: Some people think of it as a version of hell.

Continue reading “Fringe Benefits (Scotland)”

The Shining (Finland)

Finland – Lapland ~ 2013

You know in The Shining? When Jack Nicholson goes a little bit bonkers (to put it very gently), due to being cut off in the middle of nowhere? And you are left wondering whether the character was always a little bit crazy, or if the icy conditions turned him that way…well yeah, so I used to think that was an interesting story and great film (like the rest of the world!), but I didn’t rank it as a real life documentary study on mental health. That is…until I spent a few months in the wintry tundra of Finland last year…

Let me explain. You see this lodge really was in the middle of nowhere, with snow as far as the eye can see and only a few other buildings in the surrounding area. That means that employees were flown in to an airport in Sweden, and then drove to this log cabin to begin their toil…which was basically slaving away so that rich white people can enjoy a manufactured “get away from it all” experience. An obvious paradox, but that is not what this is about! Anyway, the food there was pretty uninspired, after all the kitchen staff had a limited stock of frozen items and were expected to whip up some kind of Parisian masterpiece three times a day, the guests always complained…I felt like telling them, “listen wrinkles! If you think YOURS is bad, then what slop do you think we get?!” But I refrained, over and over and over again…my fake smile becoming more and more strained as the days went on…

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But there was light at the end of the tunnel! I heard that a new head chef was coming, and that he had all of these awards, and used to run a five star restaurant, and could fly, and make chocolate come out of the taps…basically people said this guy would revolutionize things, and we might get something more wholesome than reheated crispy spaghetti from four days ago. I wasn’t going to hold my breath. But you know what? He did! As soon as this cheeky Scottish chappie came bouncing through the door the food was markedly better, it had…it had…TASTE! I am not sure what he was doing, but it was working! By the end of his first dinner time he had already won over our taste-buds and our hearts! But unfortunately…the good times didn’t last forever, it was only a couple of weeks in to his tenure that he started falling apart, first he would scream at the other staff like a Gordon Ramsey wannabe, but then he became more extreme and odd in his behavior…one time he argued with me about the vegetarian option (which was fish?!?!) in ear shot of a customer who had requested it “HUUU IZ IT? THE FAT LESBIAN OUT THERE? SHE’S NOH A VEGETARIAN NEE WAY!” and another time I did a stock check of my bar and noticed two bottles of wine had vanished…I put two and two together when he was an hour late for cooking breakfast the next morning! Then there are the sexist comments, the racist comments, the…okay. There are a lot I could list, but suffice to say that he regularly made the waitresses cry and effectively made a shitty situation even shittier for just about everyone.

He was a prick, basically, but I certainly wasn’t expecting him to turn full scale mad. But one day his walls of sanity came crumbling down before our very eyes…he was late for breakfast as per usual, which is a bit of an issue when, errr…guests at the hotel expect to be fed in the morning…anyway, he started F’n this and F’n that – nothing unusual, sure. But then he decided to tell ANYONE who came in the kitchen to “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING KITCHEN, IT’S MINE”…well this was a slight issue, as what this Gollum-esque character had neglected to realize, is that waiters and waitresses needed to come in to fetch the food out…of course very quickly there were complaints from just about everyone sitting in the restaurant, both about the fact that they were not getting any form of service, but also about the manically loaded and profanity driven language that was coming out of the kitchen! I’m sure I saw an older couple hiding under a table…and a lady kneeling saying some holy Mary’s. Eventually the big boss was called. You seriously don’t mess with this bitch…I don’t use this term loosely; trust me she was the dictionary definition. She once asked me for water with ice, and when I gave it to her she said “what is this? Don’t you know I want three ice cubes, not four?” Basically, this was set to be an ultimate encounter of the most thrilling kind! “Errr, Chef – excuzzz-“ “GETTT THE FUCK OUTTA MY KITCHEN!”

Shining Mad GIF

Excited gasps from everyone. “What?! No, you don-“ “GETT THE FUCK OUT. THIS IS MINE. YOU STAY IN YOURS.” More excited gasps from everyone – possibly an “oooooh!” “I am the-“ “I RUN THIS, THIS IS MY AREEEEEEE-NAH!” And so it went on, until he stormed off in a red faced huff. Afterwards everyone looked very sheepish, and the guests still hadn’t been fed. So what happened? Well, the boss was forced to roll up her sleeves and whisk the eggs and fry the bacon herself! Of course the waiting staff had a fun morning, they shared “OOOOOHHMYGOD” glances at each other and whispered rumors when they had a spare second; it certainly broke the usual monotony of stacking sloppy plates, that’s for sure! But the story isn’t over my friends, not yet! Naturally this guy was fired immediately, I mean it was way overdue, but the bosses were forced to let a lot slide, as it is a pain to get a new chef all the way out to the Lapland wilds! Anyway, I guess this big kick off was the final straw, as they couldn’t not fire him. So as was routine in these situations he was asked to clear up his things and hop in the van with Kosta, who would drive him to Sweden where he would have to make his own flight arrangements…but, you see this wasn’t possible…he said he had literally no money, at all. So what did he do? Did he call someone to try and help him out? Did he apologise and attempt to win his job back somehow. Well, no. Obviously not. Instead, as they neared the small airport he took out his chef’s knife set, unrolled it, and held the largest blade to the driver’s neck… “I’M NOH FUCKIN’ GOIN ANYWHERRRR!”

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(Dramatic pause) “I’M NOHH GOIN TILL YA BOOK ME A FLIGH AN GIV ME ME MONEY!” Well…of course he had went insane. Blame it on the weather, blame it on the situation, or errr, blame it on his brain…but either way, this guy had well and truly lost his marbles. But the driver, in a stroke of agility and genius, simply waited for a window of opportunity during one of his garbled ramblings, and slid out of the door – slammed it shut – and locked it from the outside with his keys. Phew, done. Feeling betrayed and even more furious than before, the now imprisoned chef unleashed a second knife, and started to slash violently at the dashboard, the steering wheel, the windows, everything…”RARRRRRRRR, I”LL KILLLLLLL YAHHHHHHH!” All while the Bulgarian driver (who spoke very little English, never mind anything with a thick Scottish accent) watched on, and finally opted to phone the police.

Phone Call GIF

(He never did tell me what he said whilst on the phone to the authorities…I mean…where would you start?!) “Hi…yeah…I have a guy in my van here. Yeah – little worried, he is violently slashing and stabbing at my dashboard…a-ha…that’s right….okay, so now he is biting and wrestling with the air bag…errr…can you come quick? Please?” So anyway, there we have it people! The Shining is real. Jack Nicholson really should be more vocal about it…after all, it could happen to YOU!

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Public Pooping (China)

China – Wuhan ~ 2012

A move to a different country is difficult, you have to contend with a different time zone, a different language and a whole different culture. It can be pretty hard, but eventually you adapt. You get to know the layout of your city; you get a favourite café, pub and a place to hang out…slowly you learn that McDonalds isn’t the only thing you can relate to (not that you don’t return every so often/all the time).

Continue reading “Public Pooping (China)”

Old Friends (Ireland)

Galway ~ Ireland – 2013

I remember my automatic reaction when a (now ex)  lady-friend of mine suggested a spur of the moment mini-break to Ireland…we hadn’t even known each other for that long…I mean, we weren’t even an official thing (whatever that is!)  She could have been a mad-axe murderer, she could have hatched a plan to get me out of the country, and harvest my organs or something…or, she could just be a nice normal person, with a nice normal plan to have a romantic getaway together…you can just never be sure in these circumstances…

But I said yes all the same, I mean…why not?

The clear choice apparently, was Dublin, for the sole reason that it is the capital – I knew in my heart of hearts this was a lazy choice…and I was relaying this to an Irish friend of mine, who immediatley grabbed me and muttered, “no…no man…NO. Not Dublin. Galway – I’m tellin’ ya…fucken…Galway.” There was such sincerity in his voice, such clear and unequivocal passion, that there was no way I would defy his opinion! He went on to explain that Dublin had became oversaturated, and overpriced. Playing up on the usual lepracaun Guiness drinker, who does nothing but have sex with four leaf clovers all day, “ting.” He found it obnoxious, and not a true reflection of Irish culture – just a pumped up stereotype to pull in fucking American tourists.

I nodded, as if I knew what he was talking about.

Nodding Bale GIF

So Galway it was, I did some research…I knew it sounded a little familiar, turns out a few of my favourite comedians are from there…so at the very least I was expecting some fun, and some humorous thrills and spills! Good thing is, it’s just a short flight from Newcastle, I think like half an hour, maybe a bit more? So before we had even finished our peanuts, we found ourselves there…we were immediately lost, which didn’t help at all, and spent what seemed like forever, walking up and down streets dragging bags filled with clothes we would never get around to wearing…thank God for the friendly folk there. Someone, a random stranger who honestly looked a little bit scary – stopped us and asked what we were doing, maybe my blotchy red face served as a beacon that displayed I needed aid. We told him, and he called up the hotel – got the address, then called a taxi and had it pick us up, then drop us at the door. This friendliness was no one time, stroke of luck! People are actually NICE there…I know, it’s a crazy notion!

The following night we found ourselves somewhere on the main high street, after an amazing dinner, and quite a few fine ales…we were deliberating which way to go, you know,  where to head to next – when I felt a sudden arm around my neck. “Where are we off to, then?” It was a small group of people a couple of years older than us, we were taken aback…and went into the usual stranger, danger mode, obviously we immediately tried to escape…but they were having none of it; “Come on maaan, come onnnn! Ya’ with us tonight!” and with that we were shepherded into a nearby nightclub. We had skipped the whole awkward first stage, and been invited into the “best friends for fucking ever” section of friendship. I found myself thinking that this is how it should be…all that wasted time, your a person, I’m a person – let’s just go someplace, and have a good time.

I seemed to click with one guy in particular, I think his name was Adam…anyway, we had some rather enlightening conversations once we got in there  – after a few round of drinks of course…

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“Galway…is fucken amaaaazing! Don’t even tell me it’s not! YOU CAN’T SAY THAT!”

“No, no – it’s lovely, I was jus-“

“Wanna’ know why? Eh? The PEOPLE.”

“I was planning on going to Dublin, then my friend sai-“

“NOOO! DON’T! Galway…Galway…GALWAAAAY! I’ve lived here all my life, and you know – I have never once paid for a taxi – NOT ONCE. I just walk, someone picks me up…brings me a mile, I get out – within seconds someone else is along…they take me so far…then, I’m HERE!”

I laughed, and so did he – but he was obviously telling the truth. There was something great, about that community feel, that help people out just because it’s fucking nice mantra, that made parallels to other places, including my own hometown, pretty bleak.

“I’ve never actually paid into this club till now…usually just hop over the back-way, you know? But you went and paid for you and your lady, and I was like FUCK it, didn’t fancy the upheavel! There’s like glass, and nails – ya’know? But you gotta’ live dangerously, or ya’ not livin!”

Gandalf Chuckle GIF

The next day my girlfriend and I,  were walking the streets again, sampling more food, and even more of the ales. As we came out of a tourist store, we heard excited screams from across the street…the group, our new sudden best friends we had parted with a few hours ago, ran toward us. We began to recount the craziness of that night, without even a sniff of nervous awkwardness – we laughed about the stupid stuff that had went on, and after we had giggled till we were breathless – they asked if we fancied lunch, or maybe even dinner later on…

You know…there’s hospitable, and then there’s that. I haven’t even got a slightly negative thing to make a joke out of! Lovely place, lovely people. It’s simple as that…Galway man, GAAAAALWAAAAY!

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