The Captain's Blog

That Particular Age

2010-03-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Ever since i hit 30, birthdays have been a continual source of misery for me. I dont know what it was about 30 but something seemed to go off in my head and i just instinctively knew that never again would i enjoy that particular anniversary.

That was ten years ago now, so those of you with a B or above in O' Level maths will have no trouble working out what birthday i've just had to endure. Needless to say it was hideous.

Now please don't think for a minute that i'm some kind of miserable, party-pooping, kill joy who cant stand the sight of people enjoying themselves. Nothing could be further from the truth, and in fact Christmas celebrations are possibly the highlight of my year so it's not annually organised events i'm against. Equally, i don't mind being the centre of attention from time to time and have been known to sing a song or recite a few lines for the paying public, so it's clearly not that either.

Admittedly i'm no real fan of growing old. I've heard all the comments about it just being a number and all in your head and only as old as the woman you feel but still, proclaiming to the world that you're another year older just doesn't seem that bright to me. When you stop relating to the characters in 'Friends' and start to feel a greater affinity with the cast of 'One Foot in the Grave', it's time to let that particular date in the diary pass without incident as far as i'm concerned.

Of course, the main problem is that most people seem utterly incredulous that you might actually want to keep things quiet and ignore your birthday, particularly one which has the supposed significance of four zero. Friends have even taken it upon themselves to 'cure' me of this terrible affliction. They now make even more fuss than they would had i opted to celebrate in the traditional manner. It's clearly a no win situation, which is why i've paid a great deal of money to have my birth certificate altered slightly. No longer the 27th of February, it now reads the 29th.

Five Months to Go!

2010-03-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it seems as though everyone is doing something for charity. Everyone except me that is. Like many of you, I sat watching Sport Relief this weekend. I enjoyed a few cold beers whilst a cavalcade of major (and minor) celebs did ridiculous things for a host of very good causes. I'll be honest with you, I felt lousy.

One of the things I used to tell myself growing up was, when I become famous, I'll make sure I do a huge amount of work for charity. Come on! I bet we've all had that thought once or twice. It makes us feel good about ourselves. What a load of rubbish. What possible connection could there be between the two. And yet, the idea of being able to help a charity and being rich and famous seemed almost intrinsically linked in my head.

Of course, millions of everyday folk do fantastic work for charity all the time, without any real recognition and certainly without the aid of a camera crew. All it takes is a single decision and the commitment to see it through to the end. Well yesterday I made the decision and starting today i'm making it happen. This coming August I'll cycle from John O'Groats to Lands end in 10 days with nout but a toothbrush and a spare pair of shorts.

And yet, despite making the decision and setting up the JustGiving webpage, almost immediately the excuses started forming in my head. What if i'm not fit enough, what if noone will come with me, what if by September I don't have any holidays left. Unbelievable. Is it any wonder I sat on my arse feeling lousy during Sport Relief. I need a bloody good shake up, and cycling a hundred miles a day for 10 days straight might just do it.

So there we are. The website needs a bit of fettling and i've got quite a bit of logistics to work out but i'm up and running. I hope you can stick with me.

Thirteen days in Russia - Epilogue

2009-12-04T05:28:00.000-08:00

Has anyone seen Ice Road Truckers? It’s a great bit of television and if you haven’t seen it and get the chance, I’d strongly recommend that you do. It traces the working lives of an extraordinary bunch of chaps (I apologise now if there are some lady drivers but I didn’t see any) who drive enormous, articulated lorries across the frozen lakes of Alaska delivering all manner of equipment. As the name of the program suggests, the roads are made entirely of ice which adds a tremendous element of danger to an already difficult job.

This morning I took a three hour taxi ride from Kogalym to Surgut. It was around -20 degrees, pitch dark, and the view out of the front windscreen was not unlike that of the aforementioned channel 4 program. I have to say that it was possibly one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done. The roads in Western Siberia are thankfully pretty straight which is just as well because every time anything passes you going the other way, you’re instantly blinded for the next 100 yards or so. I’ve no doubt that the driver has done the journey a million times, but for a first time passenger, eager to get home, it was nothing short of terrifying. I kept trying to fall asleep but unfortunately the road was so uneven that every time I came close to nodding off I was rudely jolted awake. Opening my eyes I was often greeted with a view even more terrifying than when I’d closed them. I distinctly remember coming too on one occasion only to see an overturned lorry in the ditch by the side of the road. It took a while for me to pluck up the courage to shut them again after that I can tell you.

The trip was made even more surreal by the fact that one of our party managed to get himself nicely inebriated prior to leaving. While I sat cowering on the back seat, desperately trying to remember as many episodes of Ray Mears as I could, he happily sang and bobbed along for the entire journey, seemingly oblivious to the whole thing.

As I write this last little entry, I’m sitting in Domodedovo Airport where I started my Russian journey nearly two weeks ago. That first flight seems like an eternity ago I must say. I’m a little irritable as I had no sleep on the flight from Surgut. It was a rather old plane and, as the token tall guy, I was presented with a special none-reclining seat to enjoy. I’ve also landed far too early to check-in for the British Airways leg so I’m just sitting, killing time and debating whether I should hang around by the full body scanner this time to see who follows me in.

I’ve travelled a fair amount over the last six months and I’m really looking forward to doing not very much for a few days when I finally get back to the UK. Of course I’ll have to think of something else to blog about. I’ve really enjoyed having you along for the journey and it’ll be a terrible shame to let it all end after we’ve just started getting to know each other. I must say that writing a few paragraphs every few days was extremely therapeutic while such a long way from home and I would strongly recommend it to anyone who’s thinking of travelling for an extended period. For now however I’ll leave you with this last little snippet. One tweeter recently asked me, “At -40, does it freeze before it hits the ground?” Well, after a thorough two week research trip to Western Siberia I can happily conclude that, “No it doesn’t.”

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 7

2009-12-02T07:40:00.000-08:00

My last full day in Western Siberia. What a strange mix of emotions I’m feeling as I get ready for the office. I have to say that “surprise” is not something I expected, but having been granted a lie-in, that’s actually the predominant thought at the moment.

It goes without saying that I’m obviously looking forward to going home too. I’ve missed family and friends a great deal, particularly over the last few days, so it will be great to land in the UK and start catching up. I’ve also made many new friends and a part of me is genuinely sorry to be leaving them behind. I’d love to take them all with me and throw a big old shin-dig for them back in blighty. I’d like to show them the kind of hospitality they’ve shown me during my stay. People here, without exception, have been unbelievably friendly, courteous, curious, interesting, interested, funny and happy….. perhaps apart from one security guard, but then I’m sure I saw the merest flicker of a smile as I reluctantly handed over my poorly concealed mobile phone.

Last night we had a little dinner in recognition of the successful project carried out over the last week and a half, and toasted our success as well as our continued friendship and business partnership. Well I say “little dinner” but anyone who’s read my earlier blogs will know fine well they don’t do little dinner’s here. Last night I genuinely thought the traditionally cast-iron Baldwin stomach was going to meet its Waterloo. Caviar, spicy sausage, cabbage, chicken in sesame, peppers in something, herring in something else, potatoes, white bread, black bread, the dishes just kept coming and coming and coming. All washed down of course with glass after glass of vodka. And when I said a toast to our continued friendship, of course I meant our continued friendship and everything else as well. It was a wonderful night with lots of laughter and smiles however a minor low point came after the last of the aforementioned dishes was cleared away only to be followed by the main course of steak and raspberries. The chap next to me actually asked if I was ok. “Fine” I answered, “just praying for a second wind”.

And so, a fine and fitting farewell to a wonderful and unexpectedly varied experience. I’ve never really been one for taking many pictures but I perhaps wished I’d snapped a few more on this trip. I mean there are things that not even a vivid imagination such as mine can hold on to forever. It’s not every day you get to shoot the breeze with two Siberian, pool playing lesbians (yep – even in Siberia too), or gate-crash a wedding and dance the night away with a complete strangers mother-in-law. Despite all this however, one thing is certain; London, Moscow, New York or Kogalym, we’re all just doing what we can to get along, and if we can pass on a little friendship, warmth and humanity along the way, well, the world is suddenly not such a scary place. I’ve no doubt that I’ll continue to be a ‘died in the wall’ xenophobe, but I have to say that right now it’s definitely with a pretty small ‘x’. Das vidania.

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 6

2009-11-30T08:25:00.000-08:00

Well readers, I’m now getting to the point where I can almost smell that British Airways gin and tonic. Two more days in the office followed by a 3 hour taxi drive to the “nearby” town of Surgut to catch an early morning flight back to Moscow and then onto good old LHR.

It’s probably as well I’m heading home soon as I’ve all but run out of socks. A slight oversight on my part when I packed (sock gremlins probably made off with a few pairs) and the whole situation is compounded by the lack of laundry service in the hotel. Despite this the hotel has in fact been a real blessing. I wasn’t expecting a great deal but the room is clean and well furnished, I have internet access and a mini-bar and the meals have all be fine. On my last trip here I was staying in a western run camp which, although it was a little more like home, was certainly lacking in Russian spirit.

Of course I’m not home yet, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last week and a bit it’s that Russia, and Siberia in particular, is frighteningly and predictably unpredictable. Anything could, and probably will, happen between now and my allotted departure time. To be honest, the very thought of a 3 hour taxi ride in these conditions has got me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. We’ve been taking taxis ever since we arrived in Kogalym and they’ve all been pretty entertaining. Without exception all the drivers have been multi-tasking to some degree throughout the journey, and with a surprisingly varied selection of tasks. We’ve had the standard phone conversations obviously; some text messaging and yesterday one enterprising young chap was actually playing poker. He had his PDA screen up in front of him and managed to get through three or four hands between the office and the hotel. It’s probably worth mentioning that most taxi drivers have also perfected the art of the handbrake turn. Good fun in Sainsbury’s car-park, but a little less enjoyable on an ice-covered road facing oncoming traffic.

So then, just another couple of days left in the office. We’re all at that comfortable tidying up, report writing, ‘i’ dotting and ‘t’ crossing stage that follows every project like this. Today, that involved taking out our flash drivers and swapping MP3 files between the various members of the team. Forty five gigabytes of music changed hands in absolutely no time at all and for a very brief moment, all language barriers simply vanished as the sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers reverberated around the office. Tomorrow it may well be family pictures and over lunch I'm sure I caught just a whiff of a rumour that vodka drinking will be compulsory on the last day. Like I said, anything could happen yet so stay tuned.

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 5

2009-11-28T05:14:00.000-08:00

Well I’ve reached the half way point of my epic Siberian visit. In recognition of this significant milestone I was awarded the mother of all hangovers this morning, which I was allowed to take to the office as a gentle reminder of my evening. Now I’m not suggesting for a moment that the cause was anything other than stupidity on my part. Matching two seasoned Russians, vodka shot for vodka shot all evening was only ever going to end in tears and this morning they were mine. It was, however, well worth it.

By any standards it was an entertaining evening. Bored of the menu in the hotel the three warriors ventured out into the frosty Kogalym night, in search of food. After a short walk, we settled on a rather happening spot in town and headed upstairs into a bustling, nicely furnished restaurant. The place appeared to be playing host to two large groups of people. The first were celebrating a recent marriage and the second was made up of couples celebrating their tenth anniversary.

Funny isn’t it? The world over, wedding parties are one and the same. There’s something very comforting about wandering into a reception in the middle of absolutely nowhere and seeing the same enormous PA system, the same club singer and the usual collection of friends and relatives doing the usual side-to-side type of dance we all do when we haven’t had enough to drink. I suppose it’s a bit like biting into a Big Mac in some terrible backwater a wondering how on earth they managed to make it taste the same.

Our dinner was a feast of the finest local delicacies including the now compulsory frozen raw fish, cabbage, pickles, steak, potatoes and of course vodka; litres of the stuff. It was at this point I realised I would be paying a heavy price for my evening’s entertainment, and it wouldn’t be one you could measure in roubles. During the meal, the assembled guests really began to kick-up their heels. After a few numbers from the resident club singer the party was in full swing and all side-to-side dancing was cast aside in favour of flamboyant, individual styles. Like all weddings of course there were one or two dancers whose enthusiasm was in a very different league to their actual ability, and that made for an entertainment all of its own.

It wasn’t very long before both parties realised there were three diners that evening who were unattached to either group. Apparently this is not allowed in Russia and so we were “invited” (kicking and screaming in my case) onto the dance floor to help them with their evenings celebrations. It’s at this point in the proceedings that my usually photographic memory becomes a little cloudy, in fact I think I must have accidently popped the lens cap back on after the second half litre bottle of vodka had disappeared. All I can say is that the restaurant and everyone in it, made three strangers feel like members of their own family. I couldn’t help but think how the same situation would have played out in any big city in the UK.

My last recollection of the evening was making snow angels on the way home. The temperature was a rather bracing-35 centigrade and believe me, a snow angel in that weather gives a whole new meaning to the word refreshing.

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 4.5

2009-11-25T09:22:00.000-08:00

The Brits have football, the Indians have their beloved cricket and the New Zealanders simply adore Rugby. For Russians however, the National Sport is quite obviously smoking, and they are masters of it. Now I fully realise that I’ve become accustomed to a world of smoke free pubs and restaurants, living as I do in the UK. As such, perhaps I’m a little over sensitive to a smoky atmosphere, however in Russia it is simply impossible to find a bubble of clean air to call one’s own. I’m typing away in my hotel room here in Siberia and I can actually see the cigarette smoke coming under my door. Why? Well there are three blokes smoking in the corridor outside. In fact they’re actively encouraged to do so by the placement of fancy ornamental ashtray that draws residents from all over to stand and puff away next to room 303. I suppose in a country where temperatures hit -30 and beyond for a good chunk the year, you can’t exactly kick the offenders outside (although goodness knows I’d love to watch) but all the same, surely a little clean air isn’t too much to ask.

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 4

2009-11-25T08:54:00.000-08:00

Another day, another rouble. About fifty to the pound as it happens so not it’s exactly the strongest of currencies. Lunch is around 120 roubles and dinner, with a few beers in our POSH restaurant, was about 800 roubles. Tonight I discovered Stella on draft which was an absolute delight, so polished off a couple of large ones with the starters.

I’m feeling pretty dog tired to be honest writing this. The five hour time difference, coupled with the fact I’ve not been sleeping too well, means I’m practically falling asleep in my Borscht. And going to bed early doesn’t always help either as last night I was up taking my pulse at 1am. I could hear the damn thing thumping away in my head and was convinced that something was up. I spent ages trying to figure out what it was I’d eaten that day and what ingredients might have caused me to be so wide awake. Most likely it was just the workload and the jet lag.

Of course the other big issue out here is the fact that everywhere is so bloody dry. The temperature outside today was around -23. There’s not a great deal of moisture kicking about at that temperature and add to that the continual air conditioning in the office and hotel and you’ve got a pretty unpleasant atmosphere in general. I’m half expecting to wake up mummified. Tomorrow is meant to be a little warmer before things then plummet headlong into the minus thirties this weekend.

So what’s the work like I hear you cry? Well it’s interesting. Of course besides being able to count to ten and saying ‘beer please’, my Russian is nonexistent. The clients English is equally sparse and so everything is being conducted through a translator. As long as you remember to take things nice and slow that works most of the time. When you enter into heated discussion, however, as we did around seven o’clock this evening, things can very quickly head south. Everyone forgets they can’t be understood and blasts off at a million words a minute. That was my queue to head to the bar and I think the translator had much the same idea. Tomorrow will be more of the same I’ve no doubt. We’re making progress but it can be extremely frustrating for both sides.

Food on the whole has been pretty good. Local delicacies include frozen raw fish dipped in salt and black pepper, mushrooms in…... well we never really did get to the bottom of what they were in, besides some form of pickling solution, and pigs tongue with a mustard sauce so strong I now have a sense of smell rivalling any canine on the planet. Lunch was awful…. sorry offal. I’d actually forgotten just how much Russians like their offal, so a menu consisting of liver, heart, tongue and tail is not uncommon. As with all things, trial and error is pretty much the only answer – that and a good supply of settlers.

Right dear reader (singular), I better head off to bed I guess. No doubt I’ll be up again in an hour or so for a rest. Till then – Das Vidania.

Thirteen days in Russia - Part 3

2009-11-23T06:11:00.000-08:00

I was awake reasonably early yesterday. I felt pretty groggy after a couple of beers last night and was still making up those pesky three hours I lost. After a shower, a shave and a large plate of herb fried potatoes however, I was good to go. The flight from Moscow was 11:45, which is an extremely civilized time I’m sure you’ll agree. I met my two travelling companions at the Kogalym check-in desk and in no time at all we were clutching boarding cards, wandering the shops and looking at all manner of furs, carvings and animal skins in the various boutique windows.

I have to say I was genuinely taken aback by the new Domodedovo Airport building. I didn’t get much of a feel for it when I arrived on Friday, but walking through yesterday I can tell you that it really is very nice indeed, and would rival anything in Western Europe. As we approached the last security check I got my second surprise of the morning. There has been talk recently of trialling full body scanners in UK airports. Not surprisingly there was instant uproar from all manner of groups claiming an infringement of human rights, perversion, child abuse and goodness knows what else. Clearly such protests have no place in post communist Russia as into the full body scanner we went without so much as a murmur. Once on the other side I was slightly surprised to see the viewing area was partly open to passengers walking through. I could clearly see my slim, butt naked frame, rotating happily on the security guards screen as I fixed my belt and jacket. I’m sure many would have an issue with that slightly alarming lack of privacy but I must be honest it didn’t really bother me. Of course having said that, I don’t have breast implants, plastic appendages or a glass eye to worry about, so perhaps I’m not really the best judge. Once the scrutiny was over however, we had a pleasant wait with an expertly prepared latte in the comfortable departure lounge.

Sadly once on board the Kogalym flight, things were nowhere near as plush. The grim reality of where I was actually heading, finally hit home for the first time that morning. Not quite the travel nightmare I used to endure eleven years ago, but certainly not BA either. The only thing I can say in its defence, is the rather cavalier attitude towards safety is fairly liberating. People happily wander about the isle during taxiing, bags fall from overhead racks during takeoff and everyone enjoys a nice smoke in the toilets during the flight. I read my book and kept my head down. Not exactly a brace position, but it wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch.

And so finally we landed in Kogalym. Another two hours time difference takes my tally to a nice round five. We checked the weather forecast before leaving Moscow and were surprised to see that it had only just made it into minus double figures. Consequently it was still a sultry minus fourteen when we landed. Nothing by Kogalym standards, but frosty enough for me after four years in Bahrain. The temperature is set to plummet this week however. By Friday we’ll be hitting minus thirty and falling. My job here depends on land based drilling rigs in the field being able to drill and log a well. As the mercury (or alcohol) slides ever closer to minus forty, things have a tendency to stop working altogether. If that happens, it will make for a jolly quiet ten days. Rest assured however, I’ll keep you posted on the status. There’s even a big clock/thermometer in the town centre, ill see if I can post a picture of the temperature along with the blog updates for you.

Anyway chaps and chapesses. Please keep warm and please keep reading, after all, we’re in it for the long hall now.

Thirteen Days in Russia - Part 2

2009-11-21T03:11:00.000-08:00

Did you ever watch that wonderful series ‘I’m Alan Partridge’? For those who didn't, let me fill you in. After the demise of his BBC chat show, Alan is a DJ on Radio Norwich doing the graveyard shift, ‘Up With a Partridge’. He lives in a nearby hotel – the Travel Tavern - and basically wanders about the place, chatting to the staff, making trips to the nearby petrol station and drinking the mini-bar dry. Today, I feel like Alan Partridge….. but without the mini-bar.

Thankfully I now have my onward plane ticket to Kogalym. It was delivered by a super guy who, despite his complete lack of English and my limited, eleven-word, Russian vocabulary, managed to impart all the necessary information with a huge smile. I just wish he didn’t have to leave so quickly or I’d have bought him a beer. I now also have internet access too – doh! you’re writing a blog Gav. Anyway it turned out to be a little less painful to setup than I thought it would be which is great.

Breakfast on the other hand was painful. In need of shaking off the three hour time difference this morning I opted for the berry juice, coffee, Russian bread and honey. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fussy eater, my mum would never allow fussiness at the dinner table, and on the face of it I like most of the elements in the aforementioned meal. Unfortunately however they were all truly awful. Teeth numbingly, brain rottingly awful. I was just about to give up entirely until lunch, when I spied some fried potatoes. Thankfully these were really quite delicious and so breakfast today was a rather fat and carb loaded plate of butter soaked spuds.

Talking as a died in the wall xenophobe, I think it’s mostly a lack of home comforts and familiarity that makes such experiences seem worse than they actually are. I have a relatively comfy room, a restaurant, a bar and laptop so I’m pretty well off. I guess I’m always just a little surprised at my reaction to these things after so many years travelling and living in hotels. Surely by now I should be able to laugh-off even the most extreme situations. Clearly not! And besides, taking things in your stride is nowhere near as interesting to read.

Right now I feel like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. I’m down to my boxer shorts and dog tags, going quietly mad in a hotel room and waiting for the inevitable mission. Let’s hope I don’t lose it completely and smash the place up, or bump into Marlon Brando in the lift. I do have one treat to look forward to mind you - a duty-free copy of Moon with Sam Rockwell. That, dear reader, will be tonight’s entertainment.

Thirteen Days in Russia - Part 1

2009-11-21T00:52:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe it. After eleven years away I suddenly find myself on a Boeing 767 flying back to Russia, and more specifically to Koglym, a small, swampy oil town in Western Siberia where I spent a good chunk of time working as a naïve twenty something year old. That was back before marriage, kids or a mortgage turned me into what I am today and when people honestly thought the world would grind to a halt when the calendars ticked over from 1999 to 2000.

Today was the first leg of the journey from London to Moscow. I’m staying at the somewhat grandly titled “Airhotel – Domodedovo”. Eleven years ago this airport didn’t exist. Domodedovo was a ramshackle terminal building that used to instil the very fear of God into me upon arrival. I used to barge my way through a mass of grubby, pawing taxi drivers, bribe some officials to get my bags on board an aircraft and then endure the three hour flight west, often accompanied by livestock or a slobbering dog with halitosis in the adjacent seat. It’s all very different now I’m glad to say. British Airways will bring you straight here from London Heathrow with a G&T and a smile and the terminal building is bang up to date - can’t be more than five or six years old. Of course five is a magic number in Russia. I think it’s about as long as most things last before they start to fall apart. I don’t think anything, anywhere has ever been serviced properly, which means that once it passes that magic number, it instantly has an impending sense of doom and failure about it. Not particularly comforting when the lift doors shut and the lights go off.

Still, even with a new airport building and a hotel nearby, it’s good to know that something’s never change. The queue for check-in at the hotel took around half an hour. There were only seven of us and five of those were a party enquiring about internet access. The other lady however seemed to be a friend of the receptionist so it was nice that they had a chance to catch up. I smiled quietly to myself as I listened to the mumbles and complaints from those in the queue. I refuse to let such minor inconveniences bother me on this trip. If I do, what state will I be in a week from now?

After the receptionist had said her last goodbyes, I finally got my room card and headed upstairs via the previously mentioned lift. Unfortunately, although my card opened the door to room 616, the lady and two children that already occupied it weren’t all that keen on sharing. I don’t blame them. I hadn’t shaved, the rooms aren’t big and I did have a large case. I headed back to reception where I was promptly given the key to room 716 instead. The temptation to try this new key in every door on the seventh floor was almost overwhelming but I resisted. After all, I have all day tomorrow to kill and I’ve only brought two films along with me.

Russia is indeed a funny old place. Eleven years seems like only yesterday. The familiar sights, sounds and unfortunately smells, bring back so many memories. The strange mix of people: some rude, some utterly charming. It will be an interesting return I’ve no doubt. I only hope that you stay with me – I’m going to need all the support I can get. I’m heading off to the bar now I think, where I’ve no doubt there will be beer. Wish me luck…..

Don't Call Us

2009-11-12T04:28:00.000-08:00

So it’s now official. I am living the dream. After 39 years on this planet, mostly umming and arring over what to do when I grow up, I’m finally working towards a career I believe in and love in equal measure. I’m acting. Well, I say “I’m acting”, the reality of course is more complicated and far less glamorous than it first appears. Like 99% of actors around the globe I’m also relying on a day job to pays the bills. The focus however, is preparing oneself for the next audition… and the next, and the next one after that. It’s a seemingly never-ending round of train journeys and auditions. And along with the auditions of course, goes the almost obligatory emotional rollercoaster. In fact it’s not unlike the Grand National Rollercoaster in Blackpool, that I took my two boys on last weekend. You’re competing with a whole bunch of other people in an event that’s been going on since time began – and often in the rain.

Ok so maybe it’s not that alike but there are some similarities. There are the pre-ride nerves, the anticipation and the jostling for position followed by two minutes of heart thumping, stomach churning, thrills, before finding yourself unceremoniously dumped on the other side of the turnstiles wondering what on earth just happened. I’m being flippant of course but there is some element of truth in it all. Like most white knuckle rides, auditions are generally very, very short (I’ve travelled all day for a five minute audition and not got it) and it’s extremely hard, when faced with that possibility, not to become somewhat disillusioned over time. The ability to stick at it of course is what separates the winners from the ‘also ran’s’ and, determined to end up the former, I shall keep on going for as long as I can draw breath. I'm sure a very wise man, almost certainly once said: “Don’t let the length of the queue, put you off taking the ride”… or something similar.

I had two very interesting auditions in London quite recently and they couldn’t have been more different. The first one was for an advert. We were all ushered in, in pairs, asked to perform for the camera, and then shown the door. There was no dialog, the actors being expected to convey everything through facial expressions alone – “Not too over the top now luvies, keep it natural but just exaggerate it enough to notice”. It was horrible; truly awful and I was glad to leave. The second audition was for a television presenter, and it couldn’t have been more different. It felt like a great audition, rattling off a few paragraphs of memorized dialog followed by a short mock interview. I felt confident and in charge of the proceedings and I received some very positive feedback from the casting director. I left on a cushion of air.

So then, two, very contrasting, auditions. Both were pretty short, both were huge emotional rollercoaster’s and ultimately both had the same outcome; “don’t call us, we’ll call you”. Disappointing certainly, but I did learn something from them - once you find yourself dumped on the other side of the turnstiles, it's a good idea to forget that ride and head off in search of the next one. It might just be better.

Been a Long Time Old Friend

2009-10-28T07:43:00.000-07:00

Today I find myself pondering the much mused upon, often quoted, frequently discussed and played out topic of writers block. To the long suffering readers who occasionally, or maybe not so occasionally, logon to a particular site hoping for an update, I salute you. It’s your patience that, often times, provides the impetus to the writer. Knowing there’s an audience baying for your ramblings is a mighty strong incentive to put finger to keyboard or pen to paper or forehead to desk. Whether delays or gaps in the ramblings can actually be attributed to writer block however, is something I’m unable (without a good few hours pondering and chin stroking at least) to conclude.

Certainly in my case, the issue of discipline is perhaps the more pertinent argument. I’d be the first one to hold my hand up and admit to being wholly undisciplined. I’m also rather embarrassed to admit I don’t save this particular trait just for writing. Oh no, I apply it to every aspect of my life in equal measure. People say that doing things simply because you enjoy them is easy. I would say that doing things because you enjoy them AND whenever you want to, is in fact easy. Doing things you enjoy in order to meet a deadline when you’re not particularly in the mood, is really rather hard work. Of course hard work is an extremely relative term and put alongside building a patio, climbing Everest or opening a tetra pack carton without pouring the contents down your shirt, writing a blog every couple of days is actually a piece of cake – but hopefully you catch my drift.

My Dad, upon whom I draw for much of my inspiration, always said ‘make your hobby pay’. Of course being the man he was he also said that ‘when your hobby becomes your job it ceases to be your hobby’. Wise words indeed. His solution to this rather perplexing conundrum was to turn his hobby (playing in a Jazz band) into half a job. He ended up playing semi-professionally most of his life and made a great success of it. What a clever chap.

Anyway, as usual I appear to waffling and have deviated from my initial brief. Writers block. Yes it almost certainly does exist. Whether or not I have actually experienced it however, in all of its gruesome, painful, Technicolor clarity and detail, is unlikely. I’ve continued to do the things I enjoy whenever lucid and whenever the mood takes me, and not to meet any particular deadline.
Of course the voice that lives at the back of my head is now screaming that I should discipline myself into writing regularly, in the vain hope that it will help instil an element of discipline elsewhere in my life. As usual the voice is right. Unfortunately I’m not only undisciplined but also selectively deaf.

Ramadan Kareem

2009-09-03T01:27:00.000-07:00

I’ve lived in various countries around the Middle East (on and off) for the last 10 years or so. Although now based in the frozen wastes of Aberdeen I still make occasional trips back to the old haunts of Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Cairo and Dubai. It’s a part of the world I feel a great affection for, not least because I’m still cashing in the air-miles, and it’s an area in which I still have many friends.

As I write this, I’m coming to the end of a 4 day trip to Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. It’s the Holiest Month in the Muslim calendar – Ramadan – and for many visitors to a Muslim country, it can be a source of curiosity, frustration and bewilderment. In many countries, like Bahrain and Saudi Arabia, Muslims observe Ramadan by abstaining from eating, drinking, smoking or love making during the daylight hours. As you can imagine, some of these are perhaps a little more inconvenient than others. Muslims then break their fast at sunset and often feast and pray long into the night. It’s a time for contemplation, celebration and family get-togethers. To help cope with the strain that this lifestyle change puts upon its observers, Muslims are permitted to work reduced hours during the month. Many will sleep in the afternoon, making up the hours they’ve lost the night before and waking only for prayer. I guess it’s a little bit like working a month of night shifts where every day is Christmas.

Of course for non-Muslims, the abstinence applies purely to public areas. No picnics on the beach, beer gardens at lunchtime are out of the question and that post-coital cigarette in the park is an absolute no-no. With such restrictions in place it can be a frustrating time for non-Muslims going about their normal working day. In some countries, like Egypt for example, shops and restaurants remain open. Muslims observe Ramadan in exactly the same way however there is precious little in the way of enforcement for other religions. For me, this slightly more tolerant approach is perhaps more understandable but no more or less correct. I’m happy to observe local traditions and festivals when visiting a foreign country, and find much of the culture quite fascinating. Having said that however, I do find enforcing practices on people who are not merely visiting, but in fact working for the betterment of that country, a little dictatorial.

Of course, as with all things, there are work-arounds, compromises and occasionally benefits. In most offices, non-Muslim staff will head to the ‘room of sin’ for a cheeky coffee and biscuit if their throats are dry; safely out of sight of the less tolerant or weaker willed. It makes for quite a nice little social gathering, especially if you happen to work alone in an office. It’s also a fact that with a large portion of the population working reduced hours, there’s a natural slowing down of the wheels of industry. Expats can’t help but fall into a slightly more relaxed, holiday mode. Roads are quieter, queues are shorter and pressure is less. But perhaps the biggest benefit of this somewhat curious month comes at the end. Having spent thirty days enjoying the wonders of midnight feasts, family gatherings, and reduced office hours..... we all get a holiday. Just as it should be!

My First Website

2009-08-25T02:56:00.000-07:00

Building a website is a funny old game. I’ve wanted one for quite some time now, but I must admit that paying someone to do it for me seemed like an awful lot of trouble. I had visions of long and protracted phone conversations with some faceless bloke in Wolverhampton, followed by endless emails, passing photos and bits of personal information back and forth for months on end, trying to get it all setup the way I wanted it. Of course two months down the line everything would be out of date and I’d need to go through the whole sorry process again. So I fast came to the conclusion that it’s something you really need to do yourself. Having said that, I just don’t have the time, patience, inclination or aptitude to spend weeks learning how to build one from scratch. I never really got to grips with French at school, so I figure the chances of learning any other language (especially a programming one) are pretty much zero.

Luckily for me however, there are now a whole bunch of free website builders out there in intra-web land. They mostly follow the chunky button, Fisher-Price, My First Website, approach which is absolutely perfect for me, making it no longer necessary to pay someone a small fortune to build and maintain one for you. And of course with all of the cost and technical mumbo jumbo taken care of, the whole process becomes really rather fun. Once the realm of the privileged few, now every Tom, Dick or Gavin can have a professional looking website for little more than an hour or two’s investment at lunchtime.

Obviously one of the first things you need for any website is a theme. The list of sites currently available on the net is mind-boggling large and growing daily. Perhaps the only thing more amazing than the number of sites available being the diversity, with just about every service, need, requirement, hobby and fetish is catered for. If you want to standout in any way from this rather eclectic crowd, it’s going to be a pretty tall order. For some of course, standing out, is not such an issue. For them it’s enough to merely have a presence out there in cyberspace. They feel it’s sufficient to register a domain name and then sit on it until either the subscription runs out or some mega-corporation buys it off them. For some it’s all about expression of a lifelong passion or the inner workings of their troubled and, in some cases, twisted mind, while for others it’s purely a business decision and an aide to making a few more quid. One thing is for sure, having a website is now about as common as having a cell phone or a business card and, in many situations, just as necessary.

Despite all this however, I wasn’t quite prepared for the thrill and excitement of setting up my own site. As websites go it’s nothing really startling; it’s purely about me. It’s built around the premise that I am an ‘Artiste’ (in more than one sense of the word) with stuff to offer, and by visiting my site, Joe Public may just decide that I’m exactly what they need for some highly visible and extremely lucrative, upcoming project. I’ve resisted the urge to swamp the pages with information about my hobbies and interests – my Ford Capri doesn’t even get a mention – and mercifully there are no pictures of pets or children’s birthday parties. There are no holiday snaps or out of focus pictures of my last night out. There’s none of those hideous little rotating gif images, beloved of certain sites or nauseating background music that has you pouncing for the mute button in the office. I’ve even opted for a straightforward, black and white colour scheme so hopefully shouldn’t offend the purists too much.

Now I know what you’re thinking; “That all sounds pretty bloody boring”. But before you dismiss the site completely, I can tell you that I’ve done some research and come up with what I think is a sure fire way to help my website stand out from the crowd. There’s absolutely no porn.

Phew What a Scorcha!

2009-08-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

Now I’m not really one for keeping fit. Don’t get me wrong I like to be fit; I just don’t really have the will power to work at it. I do quite enjoy cycling to work however and this, coupled with good genes and a clever tailor, seems to be keeping the middle age spread a bay – for the moment at least. My route to work is a very gentle, six mile trundle along a leafy green railway line. It acts as a very good wake-up in the mornings not to mention de-stressor in the evenings. Dressing appropriately however is utterly impossible. I may as well wear scuba gear and a sombrero.

We sure do get a lot of weather up here in Aberdeen. After years of wet and windy holidays, 2009 was of course to be the summer to break all records, or at the very least, have us all sweating in the way only British folk can. Living in Aberdeen of course, we were all naturally cautious about the glorious summer prediction. So far we’ve had precious little evidence of there being any change from the norm. Torrential downpours most afternoons, the odd sticky lunch break, overcast weekends and plenty of chilly north wind. Watching Wimbledon this year, it occurred to me that Aberdeen City Council should probably forgo the normal refuse collection and regular bus service and simply pay for a retractable roof. Imagine the difference that would make to people’s lives.

A wise man once said ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, merely the wrong clothing.’ Well that person clearly never lived in Aberdeen. They have yet to invent clothing suited to the Aberdeen climate, and in particular the ‘train wreck’ that passes for our summer. I very much doubt whether the hot, sticky, wet, cold, rainy, sometimes haily, often windy days exist anywhere other than Aberdeen. There’s certainly a gap in the market for some budding textile genius. It’s a most unique lifestyle experience.

Once at work, my desk looks out on to the busy Aberdeen streets – it also looks into a bunch of flats on the other side of the road but that’s an entirely different story – anyway, most days I sit watching the sun beat down through the rainy, sleety, hail, wondering what items of clothing I should use to get me home in one piece. As the weeks progress I tend to build up quite a wardrobe of clothing next to my chair from which to make a selection. My colleagues will often make suggestions as the afternoon passes, but as the home time bell draws near, their ideas begin to change faster than an ebay auction price at closing time. Of course inevitably I’ll end up choosing my trusty old lycra cycling tights. Keep a look out for me if your SatNav breaks and you find yourself this far north, they look great with the sombrero.

Families Eh!

2009-08-13T06:45:00.000-07:00

I helped my sister to the train station with her suitcase one morning. It was just the usual pull behind you, cabin bag type of affair but by the time we arrived she was really quite puffed. It was a warm day, so on getting to the steps I did the decent thing, shouldered my laptop and picked up her case. To be honest it wasn’t all that heavy, she was only going away for a few days. Not that the duration of the trip is always directly related to the quantity of stuff being hauled of course, but in this case (no pun intended) it was reasonable. At the bottom of the stairs I attempted to drag it along behind me as she had been doing. It then became instantly apparent why she was so tired. The little wheels didn’t go round, and judging by the size of the flat spot on the left one, hadn’t done for quite some time.

This amusing incident had me thinking about other little moments relating to the various members of my family. What a wonderful gift our relatives are. I know that anyone reading this will have experienced many similar incidents and I would invite you all to give us a laugh and write in with the funniest ones.

My father was a constant source of amusement. If I thought long and hard I could probably come up with a book’s worth of stories just about him. I remember standing in a checkout queue at ASDA one time, watching him make funny faces at a toddler in a pram. The child was clutching a tube of sweets and staring at my father with a rather puzzled expression. The next thing I knew, my dad was trying to prise the sweets from the poor child’s grasp while the parents weren’t looking. He had such a wonderful way of doing things. Anyone else caught stealing sweets from a three year old would be locked up, but had the parents spotted my dad doing it, they probably would’ve just smiled.

I think one of my favourite stories involving my father occurred on my wedding day. I was married in a small Welsh Chapel and for the order of service we decided to have one English hymn and then one Welsh hymn, just to balance things up. The choice for the English hymn was Jerusalem – a tremendously rousing anthem and a real favourite of mine. The name of the Welsh hymn escapes me at present however my father, who had a wonderfully strong singing voice but spoke no Welsh, opted to sing the words to Jerusalem a second time, commenting later on that, “They just seemed to fit rather well”.

Of course I am certainly not immune to having the odd ‘senior moment’ as my dad would have called them. I remember losing my car keys a few years ago while enjoying a day out with my two boys. We’d gone to a motor racing circuit and the problem only came to light as I started making my way back to the car-park. After emptying my pockets and my rucksack, I retraced my steps and spent the next hour fruitlessly searching the grandstand for the missing keys. Sadly they were nowhere to be found. Eventually I was lucky enough to find someone who gave us all a lift home, whereupon I duly deposited the boys and picked up the spare set. Returning to the car I found it exactly as I’d left it… with the key in the ignition and the engine running.

Drug of Choice

2009-08-06T06:40:00.000-07:00

Everyone has their drug of choice. Now I’m not for a minute suggesting illegal activities here, although I realise many will almost certainly dabble in that area. Most of us however, will be drawn to something far less controversial, though often no less addictive. Take adrenalin for example. Adrenalin junkies must surely outnumber many other dependants out there; the overwhelming need for that daily rush of endorphins. I can get it cycling to work if I take the hilly route but the office doesn’t have a shower, so for the sake of my co-workers I tend to keep on the flat. For some however, only the gym will do, while for one or two more extreme souls it requires throwing themselves out of airplanes or off bridges – hopefully after making some kind of provision for the landing.

Then of course there’s the big two; booze and fags – alcohol and nicotine – drink and cigarettes. Many end up going for both; I’m told they work quite well together. Personally, given the choice of liver disease or lung cancer, I’ll take the former any day of the week. I don’t mind a game of cards every now and then but doing both just seems like too big a gamble to me. When I think of just how much of a hold those two have over so many people around the globe, it’s incredible. I could no more give up alcohol than I could driving. Of course if a doctor came up to me and said "Pack in the booze today sonny", it would be a different matter, but to simply give up? No chance, I don’t have the will power.

Of course no discussion on recreational drug use would be complete without doffing the proverbial cap (or cup) to caffeine? Coffee, as we know it, was introduced nearly 500 years ago and is the staple pick-me-up for millions around the globe. Most office workers, like me, seem to be on a near constant drip feed of instant or long over-brewed coffee. And of course caffeine has also now found its way into the fizzy drinks market. Only last week, feeling a little sluggish, I foolishly drank two cans of Red Bull. The sluggishness certainly disappeared but I felt utterly terrible for the rest of the afternoon.

Finally, hand’s up all those who are addicted to Phenylethylamine? It’s a pretty addictive substance. In fact your brain produces Phenylethylamine, or PEA, during times of intense feelings of love. I’m sure we all know one or two people who prefer the feelings associated with courtship and conquest over perhaps a more long term relationship. This “in love” drug, as I’m sure many of you ‘think you know’ is also found in chocolate. I say ‘think’ because similarities between being in love and eating chocolate unfortunately end there. There’s actually 25 times more PEA in a wedge of cheddar cheese than there is in chocolate. Not surprisingly however, the broken hearted don’t often turn to a plate of Cathedral City for post relationship comfort.

Rock ‘n’ Roll Glory Days

2009-08-05T03:54:00.000-07:00

I recently attended a show on what will almost certainly be AC/DC’s final world tour. The concert was quite simply a master-class in old school rock ‘n’ roll. A bunch of guys, who probably should know better, giving it two hundred and ten percent for two and a half hours to a stadium full of like minded, albeit somewhat inebriated, souls. They managed to cram in everything you would expect from such a show. All the classic hits, a few songs from the new album – which is far better than anyone ever thought it would be – two gargantuan video screens with custom made cartoons to accompany some of the songs, a fantastic set, complete with steam train, lasers and enormous inflatable woman, and a simply phenomenal firework display. For reasonably good seats I paid the princely sum of £60. Now in my days at college I would certainly never conceive of spending that kind of money on a two and a half hour show. In fact even now it still seems rather a lot. But just take another look at what they threw in to it. Weeks afterwards and I’m still talking about the damn thing. I’m meeting some friends for a few drinks tomorrow night and I know that the AC/DC extravaganza will come up again, along with yet more photographs, it simply was that good.

To be honest, growing up I was never really a ‘died in the wall’ AC/DC fan. Although a regular down the local rock club, I always liked a few ballads on my rock ‘n’ Roll smorgasbord, and as any fan will tell you; DC don’t do ballads. I do own a good few albums though, and pranced around to many a hit during my days at college. What made this concert so special however, was that this time I was able to take my nine year old son along with me. Cai has been listening to an increasingly diverse range of music over the last year or so and I figured this would be an excellent addition to his musical education. Being old school, I was also fairly confident that bad language would be kept to a minimum. Needless to say he absolutely loved it, from the opening cartoon to the last, deafening rocket. I’m glad to report that short of one or two subtle (and one or two less than subtle) innuendos, I was also proved correct in my assumption about the language. Consummate professionals have no need to ‘F’ and ‘blind’ their way through a gig; their music does the talking for them.

Unfortunately however, this was all in stark contrast to some of the rubbish, laughably calling itself support. I’m not in the habit of naming names but I’m sorry to say their music was as pointless and appalling as their language. Thankfully Cai remained un-phased by it, wondering only why the automatic ‘beep’ didn’t cover up the swearing.

Here Nessie Nessie!

2009-08-03T08:45:00.000-07:00

Stories of a terrifying beasty, inhabiting the cold, dark waters of Loch Ness have been around for over a thousand years. Indeed, if such a thing as the Loch Ness Monster really exists, then the current tenant would have to be a long distant relative of that first recorded creature. Personally I love the idea of a monster in a lake. In fact, I’m pretty much up for believing anything from Bigfoot to UFO’s and everything in-between. It’s perhaps not surprising therefore that, upon finding myself holidaying near Inverness recently, I jumped at the chance of a quick boat trip around the world famous Loch.

Our party headed for the small town of Drumnadrochit, situated on the shores of Loch Ness. As you might expect, it’s decked out with large amounts of touristy regalia and plays on the Loch Ness Monster theme pretty heavily. As you arrive, two seemingly identical Loch Ness visitor experiences – with accompanying museums and exhibitions – sit within a stone’s throw of one another. We opted for the second of the centres for no other reason than the lady who served us in the first one was possibly the most miserable woman working in the entire service industry today. Note to reader – first impressions almost always count.

And so it was, that after a pint of Nessie Ale, and with my companion’s seemingly insatiable appetite for tacky fridge magnets temporarily quenched, we headed out for our much anticipated cruise. The Loch is every bit as menacing as I’d hoped. The water, inky black due to large quantities of peat, chopped and rolled in the chilly afternoon breeze. A light rain started to fall, and as we pulled away from the harbour wall we were told by Edward, our Captain, that the Loch could become extremely rough in bad weather. Edward has worked on Loch Ness for nigh-on forty years, and he’s mapped and sailed every square inch of it. As well as taking visitors on pleasure cruises he also helps out with various studies into the ecology of the Loch. His commentary, as you might expect, is enthralling, wonderfully detailed and was rattled off purely from memory. Unbelievably, the Loch is over eight hundred feet deep in some parts; that’s five times the depth of the North Sea, and it contains more fresh water than all the lakes and rivers of the UK put together. Edward also had sonar onboard the boat and was therefore able to map the bottom and sides of the Loch as we went – fantastic stuff. My favourite statistic of the day however, was that if you drained all the water out of Loch Ness, there would be enough room to accommodate the entire population of earth, with room to spare. Well worth remembering in times of recession.

It wasn’t long into our trip before talk of the monster itself took centre stage. Edward has sighted the creature on numerous occasions, and early one morning in 1986, he even managed to snap a blurry, nondescript, picture on his camera. The photograph is pinned up around the boat with the option to purchase postcards of it to help with his continued research. According to Edward, the limited sightings, coupled with the relatively small quantities of food in the lock, pointed to a wholly aquatic, cold blooded, plankton feeder. Sounds plausible! And as Dinosaurs died out long before Loch Ness was even formed, the conclusion would therefore seem to be that it’s a fish of some kind – albeit a bloody big one. I lapped it up and spent the entire trip scurrying from cabin to stern so as not to miss anything.

The trip around Loch Ness was undoubtedly the highlight of my holiday; so much so in fact, that I may make beasty tracking a theme for future Baldwin excursions. I mean, Battlefields and Castles are all well and good, but nothing quite compares to the thrill of sailing on the murky waters of a monster filled lake, with the rain in your face, a Sean Connery soundtrack and a sack full of terrible fridge magnets.

A writer writes

2009-07-25T04:01:00.000-07:00

“A writer writes!” That was a quote from a great film with Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito called ‘Throw Momma From the Train’. Billy Crystal is teaching an adult writing class and Danny DeVito’s character – Owen I believe – is a student. Owen lives at home with his tyrannical mother and as I remember it (forgive me, it’s been an age since I saw it) he convinces himself that Billy Crystal will help him to bump her off.

I was thinking about that quote this morning during the early part of my mammoth train journey from London to Aberdeen. I told myself that I would write most of the way up thereby helping to pass the time and not wasting it drinking hugely overpriced cans of Carling Black Label. A writer writes. Now it may sound fairly obvious but it really struck a chord with me. I’ve recently finished reading Roger Moore’s excellent biography ‘My Word is My Bond’. A similar line from when Roger was learning his trade was that unless you’re acting, you’re not really an actor.

I like to tread the boards as often as I can. I’m appearing in the BBC1 drama Hope Springs at the moment but as yet I have nothing else lined up. An actor acts and a writer writes. Most careers in the arts give precious little opportunity to be fussy. Take the jobs that come your way and make the very best of them. One of the reasons I write this blog is to keep myself writing. Some days there are pages and pages of nonsense simply queuing up to be heard while other days it’s more of a struggle. I believe Bob Dylan said much the same thing about song writing. On those days I have to dig a little deeper in order create something I’m happy with. Reread it over and over, looking for the opportunity to put in a funny story or observation.

I guess the point is that irrespective of what we do – or say that we do – we have to it, and do it to the very best of our ability. Otherwise we’d all be introducing ourselves along the line of “Hi, I’m Gavin and I used to be an actor.”

How wide is the Valli?

2009-07-24T06:05:00.000-07:00

Well what a tremendous night’s entertainment. After a couple of weeks racing around London, underground, over ground and generally Wombling free, I was more than ready for a good night out. The decision was made to take in a meal followed by a West End show and tickets were booked, as with most things these day, online through Lastminute.com. Can I just point out that I have, or possibly had, or did have, or might still possibly own shares in Lastminute.com. I jumped on the dot com bandwagon shortly before everyone else jumped off. It was something akin to being on a seesaw with a rather portly gentleman and then having your partner unexpectedly disappear. Everyone knows how much that hurts….. and where.

Anyway, as a part owner of the company (to the tune of £130) I was obviously looking for a first rate service. We ended up with dinner and tickets to see the Jersey Boys. It came to twenty eight quid all in which, in my book, is a pretty darn good deal. Dinner was served up at Ruby Blue, a smart little place off Leicester Square. We arrived late – fashionably so I might add – and so didn’t have a great amount of time to spend. Despite our somewhat tardy timekeeping, the restaurant managed to serve up three extremely good meals, and a bottle of vino, in literally minutes flat. I can only assume that someone else must have ordered them, before realising the time and bidding a hasty retreat. If the food was good, then paying for it afterwards was even better. After mopping up my gravy with the last of the bread, we simply got up and walked out, flashing our dinner vouchers in the general direction of the till as we went. It felt so wrong and yet, somehow, incredibly liberating, all at the same time.

Suitably fed and watered, we then dashed to the Theatre. Well, I say dashed, picked our way nimbly would be a more accurate description. Dashing anywhere around Leicester square is of course impossible. We managed to take our seats shortly before the 7:30pm kick-off. For those of you unfamiliar with the Jersey Boys musical, let me enlighten you. It traces the story of Frankie Valli’s rise to fame with his Band, the Four Seasons. Like many, I knew practically nothing about the band, short of being able to hum a few bars of 'Cheri'. It amazes me how people can simply take a story like that and write a musical around it. I suppose the score was pretty much done for them but even so. 'Cheri', I later found out, was in fact their first hit and was written by Bob Gaudio on the way to the bands first demo recording session. The fact that he didn’t even have any proper words for it makes for an even better story, not to mention priceless pub quiz material. The story, like many of that ilk, is one of drama, love, sadness, booze, drugs, money, sharp suites, four-part harmonies and of course music. Lots of it, coupled with an ever changing set. Floors disappearing, walls appearing, things falling from the roof; the show is constantly in motion. And intertwined with all those spinning drum kits and fluorescent signs, is a cast of near super-human actors. They were absolutely stunning, and not once did they miss a beat or hit a bum note. I suppose if you’re a regular to the West End theatre scene, exceptional talent is something you come to expect from a cast. Personally, to see so many people with that much ability on one stage was a real privilege. The performance gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘tight’, and of course just about every number they played has been etched into the memory after years of radio and television airplay.

So that was it; a thoroughly enjoyable evening. I left the theatre humming, clicking my fingers and desperate for another couple of those sausages they served me at dinner.

Let the train take the strain

2009-07-16T07:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been spending this week visiting my sister in London. Living as I do in Aberdeen, it’s a good day’s march to get to the big city. It involves an uncharacteristically early bus ride into town, a weary trudge down Union Street, stopping at whatever coffee bean grinding emporium is currently in favour, followed by eight hours in the company of National Express Trains. Providing your seat is pre-booked and the toilets work, the journey itself can be quite a pleasant one. It can even be done without having to change trains which, if you happen to be travelling with an assortment of power tools (don’t ask) is a real bonus.

On the face of it, train travel should be enjoyable. There’s no map reading to speak of, falling asleep is actively encouraged, as is drinking and there’s absolutely no chance of having to change a wheel in a busy lay-by in the rain. Given all this then, why is it I still find myself constantly on edge. The answer is simple – passengers! Travelling by train presents the constant worry that I am about to be set upon by idiots, thugs, drunkards, megalomaniacs or those terrifying people who are just that little bit too friendly. Irrespective of whether any of the above people actually turn up, I’m unable to relax, even if the journey is to last a buttock-numbing eight hours.

The characters present on my most recent sojourn were, in fact, slightly less extreme than I had anticipated. The first gentleman I was seated next to was not long out of his teenage years. He carried, like many about us, a rucksack and a copy of that morning’s newspaper. Everything seemed perfectly normal until about fifteen minutes into the journey, when my neighbour decided that it was time for some light refreshment. From the bag he proceeded to remove, an empty Lucozade bottle, a two litre bottle of Sprite and an enormous bottle of Southern Comfort. For the next two hours he happily mixed himself a selection of cocktails of varying strengths until, on reaching his stop, he disembarked somewhat less steadily that he’d arrived.

No sooner had the trainee bartender left, than a grey suited businessman joined us. He positioned himself next to the window, opened his briefcase and pulled out a plain manila file. I must admit I didn’t really pay much attention to him until I noticed that he was enjoying the contents of his folder in both landscape, as well as portrait aspect. Viewed through the window's reflection I couldn’t read the articles too well but the pictures looked fine. The following station brought the arrival of the, now obligatory, Hen Party. It was at this point that the businessman decided to pop his top shelf facts and figures away and get on with some real work. The throng of ladies was unfortunately everything you’d expect…. and more.

The only other excitement to speak of was the announcement that the trolley service had run out of sandwiches somewhere around Newcastle. Attempts were made to take on extra stock at York, however only six rounds of cheese and tomato could be found. I arrived into London relatively unscathed and on time. It was however raining, but i doubt National Express Trains give refunds for that.

Childs play

2009-07-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

I think if I'm honest, I've always seen myself as a writer. Admittedly, it wasn't always the fanciful, post modernist, ultra contemporary, yet slightly edgy and forthright scribe to the masses; but a writer nonetheless. Last year, I was lucky enough to be able to take a sabbatical from my day job. I thought that I'd use the time in order to, quote, find myself, unquote. Now some would say that, given my track record, I'd struggle to find myself with both hands and a flashlight and that is quite possibly true. However, undeterred, I opted to have a jolly good go anyway.

I thought that given enough time, coupled with the absence of both the nine-to-five drudge and the necessity of having to wear any clothes, I'd come up with something pretty darn amazing. As it was, I found myself writing poetry. Not particularly good poetry mind. Daft little limericks mainly, but poetry all the same. Such classics as...

I love the freezy, frosty snow
The way it sets my face a glow
My rosy cheeks and cozy toes
Tingly fingers, icy nose
Knocking knees and chilly bum
Tied of snow now roll on sun

or the ever delightful.....

On reflection Bob’s collection wasn’t all that strange,
Plastic dog pooh, postage stamps and thirty pounds in change.
When people come he takes it out and talks about each bit,
The copper coins, the penny blacks and thirty pounds of... plastic dog pooh.

and of course who can forget...

Puff pant, puff pant,
Peddle peddle, weee.
Puff pant, puff pant,
Brake… BRAKE… EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Ah! such happy memories. I have a million others you'll be delighted to know, some even stretch beyond a single verse but sadly are no less ridiculous. When blogging times are hard I may be forced to roll out a few more. Writers do that I've heard, although it's often more in the form of pulling out a 200,000 word manuscript from under the bed, dusting it off and presenting it to their ever grateful agent. Can you imagine the look of unbridled delight on the face of my agent when, after months of pleading, he finally gets:

My sister's, best friend's, brother's pet
Part Crocodile, part marmoset
The other part he’s not quite sure
Despite the terrifying roar.

My sister's, best friend's, mum and dad
Bought the pet for their young lad
He fed it milk and sauerkraut
And twice a day he took it out.

But soon the neighbours all complained
They said the pet was not well trained
It ate whatever they left out
Preferring clothes to sauerkraut.

And so my sister's, best friend's, brother
Was told to trade it for another
But just as everybody feared
He’s now got something REALLY weird.

Like all good things, my sabbatical ended all too soon. I've since tried a number of other styles and genres but am yet to find the one that truly works for me. Who knows, maybe regular, literary confession to you may help.

Just for openers....

2009-07-13T13:04:00.000-07:00

I'm sure, like many new writers and publishers, bloggers and blaggers, chancers, duckers and divers not to mention overly effusive procrastinators, there's a mighty strange mix of emotions at work as one prepares to divulge the contents of one's mind. To open up to the populous in general and begin that all consuming stream of consciousness that, I have been reliably informed, constitutes a blog. Well yes it's true. There is a fair mix of emotions on the boil right now. It's a fact that some of them do indeed relate to a deep seated insecurity about one's own ability to write anything worthwhile. What, after all, would be the point of putting anything down if it bore about as much relevance to the common man - no, sorry, too condescending - the man on the street, as my old neighbour's views on the US electoral process. That particular worry will, I'm sure, pass. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, we're reliably told, and so surely it must be that interest works in much the same way. One man's meat being another man's reconstituted vegetable protein.

So yes, I'm fairly sure that worries over whether anyone will consider wasting ten minutes of their life, chewing through the gristle and wobbly bits of my weekly blog pie will pass. But emotions can be so cruel, can't they dear reader? No sooner have I fought so gallantly and so bravely to overcome worries of content, than I am suddenly stricken with angst over my unfathomable nemesis - punctuation. Punctuation for me has always been a complete mystery. I could, with a fair degree of confidence, place a full stop in more or less the right place in a sentence. Much beyond that, however, and I'm shooting in the dark. Certainly, semi-colon, colon and apostrophe territory is a barren wilderness indeed. The badlands, where cloaked and scathing individuals roam the tundra armed with nought but the sharpness of their minds, looking to catch the unwary.... in parenthesis.

Good punctuation, and indeed spelling for that matter, are of course genetic. There is a punctuation gene. It's been very well documented and it looks like an exclamation mark apparently. I don't have it, although parts of my rather minimalist family tree do. Other lesser known genes include the queuing gene, the tidying up gene and of course the cooking gene, but I digress. Beset with worry over content, spelling and punctuation, not to mention the techno-fear related to the setting up of the site in the first place, and it's a wonder I got as far as I did. It is for this precise reason that I intend to finish here and take stock. The fact that my feet also hurt and I have a blister coming from assembling too much flat pack furniture, is doubtless also a contributing factor.