The B Line to Zlicin

The B Line to Zlicin is kind of like the Piccadilly line to Heathrow, but on a better underground system.

Photo's from Prague and Cesky Krumlov, but without the cool alphabet.

Hood ornament for a Skoda

Cesky Krumlov in the snow...

A pack, a hrad and a cow.


A blank canvas...

That I had to fill.

What it says on the tin.

Many hands...

The bear moat at Cesky Krumlov. The only bears I saw here, came in the kegs you can see in the middle of the picture. Maybe the bears threw a keg party and were hungover.

The bus to Rozmberk. A superstitious man would have spotted something amiss here.

The Castle/hrad at Rozmberk. I came to see this. I ended up standing in the cold.

I tried to seek sanctuary at the local church, but gaining entry to it presented somewhat of a problem.

I resent that I live in a culture where these sorts of instructions for being in a park are required.

The art gallery in Cesky Krumlov. Fantastic building with utterly unaccessible and probably communist art. Had I known the art was so bad I probably would... have still gone, 'cos it did use up some time, and was warm. Miserable git.

The view from my bedroom in Cesky Krumlov. The Vltava is in front.

Dinner tables in Prague.

The patience of a saint. Imagine being in this weather in only a robe.

Charles Bridge. Note the dedicated beggar.

The Prague hrad in the snow. Pretty...

Solo kiwi on the Charles Bridge.

More on the Charles Bridge

The Karlstejn hrad


The Karlstejn Railway Station.

The only non-pornographic picture by Saudek that I could post...

Cutting mz losses

This post, for mz amusement onlz, is tzped using the uk kezboard, rather than using the cyech buttons.

I§ve decided to cut mz losses and go back to Prague. The Harrz Potter film was in Cyech, but one of the lovelz lovelz ladies at the TIC came and found me before it started, gave me mz monez back and apologiyed profuselz. Ahhh... falling in love again. So no smugness available last night. Instead I walked up to the castle again, plazed in the snow and went to bed. It could§ve been worse.

Mz bus leaves at +ě"+épm todaz and takes about š hours to get to Prague. Tonight I am going back to the expat bar and talking English. Happz dazs.

Don§t get me wrong, českz krumlov is a beautiful beautiful place, with great people at the TIC, and I would definitelz come back to it again, but NOT bz mzself1. I§d recommend it to a friend... Bz the waz, that last but one sentence was dedicated to Tazlor Mali, because I used definitelz and beautiful in the same sentence.

Achtung! Statistics!

David Slack at Public Address has linked to a 'Would you be a Nazi' Test. It's a small test with, I suspect, loaded questions and limited psychology or science, but it's worth doing. And... It is also completely worth reading his post. For further discussion, go and see the movie Crash.

Here's how I turned out:
The Everyday German
Achtung!
You are 69% brainwashworthy, 36% antitolerant, and 38% blindly patriotic
Had you lived in Germany in the 1930s, you'd have probably just gone along with the flow. Men with guns are surrounding the house next door? The bagel place on the corner's gone? Hmm...whatever. The data show you're a decent person who's willing to listen to what people of authority tell you. That's what most people are, and in most times and most places, that's ok. But not then; not there. The sad conclusion: you would've missed your Jewish friends, but you would've done nothing about it. Seriously. But rest assured, you would've forgiven yourself eventually.

Oh dear...

And back to his post, I agree with him about John Clarke. Legend. I completely relate to this:

but the man still talks in interviews about the momentary excitement of finding a capital Z as you scan a page - and the anticipation that the letters "ealand" may accompany it.

Maybe I am more patriotic than I think I am.

Hell will be not be open

WTF was I thinking when I decided to take a holiday in the Czech Republic in winter. Don't get me wrong, it is very beautiful here, and the snow on everything is beautiful, and well, cold, but if I don't get to speak English to someone soon other than to the wonderful people at the Tourist Information Centre (these people are really good) then I am going to go mad. There is almost nobody here who has more than a few sentences of English. The only tourists I see here are large groups of Japanese tourists who descend for a few hours and then leave. Every day brings a couple more busloads. I am very jealous of them. The Czech Republic is a lovely place, filled with lovely people, but, damnit, right now I need some companionship.

Today, to make a change from trudging around in the snow in Český Krumlov, I decided to trudge around in the snow in Rožmbeck, a small village about 24km up the Vltava. The bus ride up there was very beautiful, past the snow covered banks of the river, where pine forests come down to the water's edge, and where some of the trees (and surprisingly big ones at that) have buckled and broken under the weight of the snow. Eventually the bus pulled into Rožmbeck and I alighted, only to discover that Rožmbeck had apparently closed for the winter. I stood on the bridge and stared at the river for a bit, before wandering up the path to see what I could of the famed castle here. The answer? Bugger all. So I wandered back to the bridge and threw snow into the water. This excited some ducks as they thought I was throwing in bread. Fat chance, if I had bread I would have eaten it to keep warm. The snow that I threw into the river didn't melt, the water was that cold. I stood some more, before tramping up and down by the bus stop, that helpfully didn't have a timetable and waited. An hour and a half passed. Occassionally I would walk back to the bridge to tease the ducks. Then I cleared all the snow and ice off the seat at the bus stop. Hell, it was something to do. An old Czech crone came up and waited with me. This was very reassuring. Some more time passed.

A bus came.

Back in the village I bought a day old Guardian for the equivalent of two quid. I read it all and did both crosswords while drinking tea and eating food.

Tonight I am having a beer or two and then I am going to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. One of the lovely ladies at the TIC here assures me it will be in English. I hope so. And if and when it is I am going to feel bloody superior at being able to understand it all.

I am sure that Hell is not all fire and brimstone. Oh no, it is cold and it is damp. And it is closed, for all eternity.

My next holiday will be spent somewhere hot. Cricket season be damned (to a cold closed village), I'm sick of taking my holidays in winter.

Bigotry

OK, now I'm in Česky Krumlov. It's a beautiful wee town on a very sharp bend of the Vltava. If I were to step in to the frigid waters and let myself go I'd end up in Prague. It is still snowing.

The town is very quiet, which is a large change from the summer when, apparently, the whole of Prague comes to stay. The hostel I have found myself is empty, which suits me to a tee, although I suspect that after a couple of days, some conversation wouldn't go awry.

Last night I found myself in a pub called na louži, which is just off the square, or stare město, to use the Czech, albeit without the cool Czech letters (I correct myself, just worked out how to use this crazy Czech keyboard). There were some Australian girls, who left soon afterwards (I chose not to take that personally) and for a few minutes I had some quiet, while I drank the locally brewed Eggenberg beer and read Joseph Heller's Catch 22. Shortly afterwards, three people entered. OK, so they were American. It appeared that they were parents and son, and the son looked about 45+. They noted what I was reading and one of them remarked 'classic book'. I smiled back. Their conversation was loud and it was hard/impossible not to listen in. After a few minutes I picked up that the son was from Utah. He made some remark about how gambling is illegal in Utah, but just across the 'stateline' is some town I missed (or forgot) the name of, where the folk from Utah go to 'drink, gamble, and whore.' Only Americans use the word 'whore' as an adjective, right? This made me smile. And then followed a rant that made me as mad as I have ever been.

Remember that the son is from Utah. But, he don't like Mormons. No sirree, he don't like them one bit. Apparently in the ninenteeth century the US army was sent to wipe them out, but due to a freak storm, the operation was stopped. This made the son very angry. He seemed to regret the curtailment of the mission. Once his anger at this faded, father and son launched into a tirade about Jehovah's Witnesses. Finished with them? How about black people? And Jews? They didn't spend to much time on those two groups, as the mother/wife appeared to pass out on the table. I'm guessing she has heard much of this before.

There was a short lull, before the ranting moved to Islam. By this stage I was glaring at them with open hostility, but they didn't seem to notice. They decried the funding of terrorists by the Saudi government (pot calling the kettle black, anybody? Or should that be cistern calling the urinal white?), and openly and vehemently advocated the invasion of Iran. They then spat venom at the inaction of the Europeans at dealing with terrorism, while waiting for the God-fearing good ol' US of A to come and do something. Seriously, how can three grown people be so damn stupid? And so fucking naive? Not to mention rude? Would I come to their house and piss in the fireplace? No, so show some damn respect. Being a very non-confrontational sort of person, (damn those pacifists) I don't like to cause a scene, but if I'd heard one more thing...

The mother was now looking at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

Finally they paid up and left.

I don't want to descend to their level of intolerance, but suspect I'm failed when I wanted shout 'Fuck off, just fucking fuck off you ignorant ignorant bastards. Actually, I wanted (and did, in an email last night to Justice) use a much stronger word.

Sigh...

OK, so now that is off my chest, I have to decide what I am going to do with myself today. I've just missed the brewery tour, which is no loss, so I think I am going to wander up to the castle and see if I can see the bears that patrol the moat.

It is still snowing. Man, this place is very very beautiful.

Oh, and I bet that when the son remarked 'classic book' about Catch 22, I bet he has either never read it, or read it and not got it. A bit like the marines in Jarhead singing along to the Ride of the Valkyries as they watch Apocalypse Now.

Prague Winter

There is nine inches of snow in Prague today. So I've gone and done the touristy thing and slid and slithered along the Charles Bridge. There's a reason it is touristy, and that is because it is bloody fantastic. Photo's later when I'm home. There were a number of beggars who had prostrated themselves in the snow. Heaven knows how they survive. I didn't give money. Not sure how I feel about that. Should they receive something for their dedication? Should I encourage their stupidity? Do I sound callous? Probably.

Tonight, my last in Prague, I am off to an open mic session in Inognito Cafe in Vinohrady. Before then I'm planning on finding a shop that sold me attractive but imbalanced coffee cups last time I was in Prague. I am also hoping to find a music shop to find a gift for Patrick and Jitka. I'm thinking of imposing some of the Back to Mine series on them. Be a bugger if they are reading this before they get it. No surprises here then!

Tomorrow, Cesky Krumlov. I'm assuming that I can find accommodation when I get there...

Prague Spring

It's winter in Prague. I'm here for a few days before heading south to Cesky Krumlov in Moravia for much of next week. The plan there is to do very little, just soak in a Mideval town and rest. I've been staying with Patrick and Jitka, who habe been nothing short of stellar in their generosity to me. Truly kind people. They also have a black cat called Mishka who stare at me. This is a little disconcerting, especially as he can stare longer than I can.

Currently I'm entrenched at the Globe Cafe, a place that Anita and I came to last year and where the brownies are exceptional, and where the choice of music isn't. Right now I am listening to Roxette. Somehow I am not convinced that she is 'just a little bit dangerous' and nor am I convinced that she has 'the look'.

This morning I wandered around an exhibit of the photographs of Jan Saudek. Very intense photography, and a little bit disturbing... But very good too. Last night I spent time at an expat bar called U Zpevacku where Mike, a Bostonian, kept feeding me beer and extolling the vitues of Cesky Krumlov. Beside him were some Americans revelling in college basketball, declaring it to be the best game in the world. Hmmm. Later, I watched an advert full of athletic baseball catches, and I couldn't help think, sure, but try it without the glove.

On the way home I came close to falling in love with the girl opposite me on the Metro B line.

By the time I got back to Cerny Most, I was feeling worse for wear. I'd only had four beers but they seemed to have hit me hard. I clearly have lost tolerance for alcohol. The question is, is it worth the effort to regain that tolerance. I think not.

And relax...

After a mad week at work, I am off on holiday for the next seven days. It's a return trip to Prague (I was last there in January last year) and Patrick has kindly offered to put me up for a wee bit. Having been in Prague before, I'm thinking that I'd also like to get away into the countryside. I think I'll be picking Patricks brains about that.

But I am really looking forward to a breather.

It's all Pants

This morning I came in to my lounge to this sight:














This is a fairly common occurence for me. One of my flatmates leaves lines of y-fronts for the world to see. Sometimes they are on the radiator just inside the front door.

On Saturday, while at a friends place, one of their flatmates inexplicably displayed her new underwear, although not while she was wearing it.

I have two observations to make. Firstly, given the choice between the two sets of underwear, I know which one I'd rather see. Secondly, I'd rather not make that choice in the first place. Drying underwear belongs on the washing line, in the drier, or in the owners bedroom.

I sent the above photo to Justice this morning, mainly because I knew it make him laugh. his response:

I'm not sure how to respond...
Possibilities include:
1) Very funny,
2) Don't do that to anybody else... It's cruel...
3) I think that contravenes the UN declaration on human rights in several ways.
4) Nobody needs to see that on a Monday morning... Or any morning...
5) How can men's underwear be SO MUCH less pleasing than women's?
6) you are sick in the head?
7) yuck!
8) Leave - it isn't normal there.
9) why does he do that?
10) could you buy a tumble dryer?
11) If you can't beat em join em?
12) No

Yours disturbed,
Justice.

Second night Go-ing

Last night I warily set off to see The Go! Team. I've seen them once before and was always up for a second dig at them. I was/am still recovering from the night at Ministry of Sound (damn, I'm old) and a couple of late nights this past weekend, so felt somewhat uninspired to go out last night. Chris and Kate joined me and it appeared we were all rather flat going into it. The warm up acts failed to get me over the lack of fervour, and the first track (Panther Dash) seemed badly mixed. I got to thinking this was not going to be enjoyed. But....

...the mixing picked up and Ninja's religious-like fervour for rousing the audience conspired to suck me in. I simply closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride. They don't play for long, but they cram a lot into those short minutes.

The ten minute encore of Ladyflash was bliss.

It appears I wasn't the only elderly kiwi to enjoy the night out (scroll to the bottom after his rant about the European Commission and the Louvre).

Buddy Holly and the...

It's the first cricket practice of the year on Sunday.

Blimey.

Sea Change

In the past I've not been a big fan of Beck, but someone has lent me a copy of Sea Change. It is superb!

Good days

In the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Christopher Boone describes a good day as one where there are red cars. For me, a good day can be defined by one where you laugh so hard your head hurts.

Yesterday that happened three times.

Neither smug nor gormless

This is what John Cairns managed for me. I rather like it.
You should contact him if you need a portrait done

Four times

Jon has "tagged" me to complete a list of fours. So here we go...

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD

1. Milk boy
2. Response testing dam piezometers in the Hunua Ranges, Auckland. The best summer job I've had. Most of the time was spent sitting on a dam spillway feeding trout or driving an on road car off road.
3. Bindary asssistant.
4. Enrolments specialist at Auckland University.

FOUR MOVIES/SHOWS I'VE BEEN ADDICTED TO:
1. Lost
2. The Princess Bride
3. The Games (John Clarke satire on the Sydney Olympics)
4. The Simpsons

FOUR PLACES I'VE LIVED:
1. Lower Hutt
2. Roxburgh
3. Auckland
4. Edinburgh

FOUR COUNTRIES I WOULD LIKE TO VISIT:
1. India
2. Botswana (but I'm not in the hurry I once was)
3. Sicily
4. Ethiopia

FOUR POPULAR FALSE ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT ME:
1. I'm really intelligent
2. I know where the drugs are (well, that seemed to be the assumption on Saturday night at the Ministry of Sound)
3. I always want a beer.
4. I'm working when I'm at my computer...

FOUR PEOPLE I LOOK LIKE (according to some people):
1. Dad
2. A ghostbuster
3. John Travolta (well, according to a young girl in a school in central java I do)
4. Grant Smithson

FOUR THINGS (I HOPE) TO DO BEFORE I DIE:
1. Learn how to be a good photographer
2. Climb a mountain higher than 15,000ft
3. Score a hundred in club cricket
4. Come up with a better list than the above. That is lame...

PEOPLE I TAG NEXT:
1. Jim Barker
2. Chris Langston
3. Naomi Hill
4. Emma Bullard

At the Ministry

Busy weekend!

Friday night was spent about 400m from my workplace at the Thai Orchid in Wallingford, the occasion being an opportunity to celebrate Martin turning 28. Such a pretty young thing, he is too... The crowd was Martin, Jules, Esme and Chris from Oxford and a group of Martin's mates from Wallingford. The food was good (not great) but the company was excellent. Afterwards we wandered back to one of his pal's place in Wo'Fo (gee, I wander if that name will stick). Comedically, this place is directly opposite a shop called Tooth World. To call Tooth World a 'world', is slightly generous. It's a bit like calling indigestion 'life-threatening'. My parents carport is bigger than Tooth World'... Still, as someone for whom denture matters are important part of ones life, it's is good to know that Tooth World is present in my neighbourhood.

Woke up on Saturday with a hangover but happy in the knowledge that I had potentially recruited too more players for Wallingford Cricket Club (I wander if Nick and Paul woke up on Saturday morning thinking 'what have I done?'?. Well, Nick and Paul, it's like the junior campers but instead of a knife you get a big bat. And tea at the innings break.) Then it was off to help with some deliveries for 'The Besom'. The Besom is a group that aims to match people with needs with Christians who want to give. A middle thing-y, if you like. The Oxford 'chapter' is run by my friend Jules (the Jules of the above) and there's a picture of her here. She's a bit of an actress, see? Anyhows, Saturday was spent being a white-van man, including the sitting in a carpark eating takeaways (no copy of the Sun. I'm afraid) and blocking a road to unload furniture.

Saturday night I ended up on the VIP guest list at the Ministry of Sound. Well, ok, it wasn't my name on the list but the name of someone that I knew wasn't going to be there. This was my first experience at the Ministry and it was enlightening... From the marshalling of punters into gender split lines and then through the metal detectors (or was that the beautiful people selection process? The 1000 odd people inside were all very beautiful...), through the tickets and then to the coat check. An hour long queue that passed through the middle of the club and ended with the exchange of my winter coat and jumper and £4 for a wee slip of green paper. £4?? Thieving bastards. The advantage of being on the VIP list was access to the VIP lounge. Where I got to feel smug on the way in, and then got to look at people who I am sure were famous, but sadly for them, I recognised only Emma B from Radio 1. Still, it was a cool place to hang out and get some respite. The main deal of the night was Pete Tong playing a live Radio 1 Essential Mix. Like the Thai Orchid, I thought it was good, but, again, not great. Entertainingly, of all my mates, I was the only ones who was asked by random strangers for pills. And I'm the normal looking one.

MoS was suitably loud, the music was solid and for the first time a long while I camehome to hear the dawn chorus. I'd go to MoS again, but in summer when there are the less clothes to check in... And the old man in me does wonder why it can't start a little earlier in the evening. Boring old bugger I know.

Yesterday was spent with Ron walking through Port Meadow and along the Isis. When I left him, I carried on walking home along the river, something I hadn't done in a very long time. I'd forgotten how pleasureable an experience that is. Very very relaxing...

The soundtrack of my life

In response to Jim's challenge and Suzie being the first to accept it, I offer this.

Jim's challenge is as follows:
Would any if you like to contribute/submit a 'Sound Track Of My Life' to the hOME website and/or discussion group? Each 'Soundtrack' must/could comply with the following rules...
1. Must not a personal 'Top 10', but rather a narrative journey of when and how you were introduced to a song/band/genre.
2. Must be 10 songs long.
3. Must be in chronological order according to when each track was important to you.
3. Each track must be accompanied by one of the following; a) the personal story behind why it's in your soundtrack, b) the reason why the track is on your list, or c) the name of the boy/girl who meant sooooo much at that time
4. Narrative can also include band trivia (one for the boys there).

So here they are:

1. 1984. Van Halen's Jump. I remember this being the soundtrack to the LA Olympics in '84. I also seem to remember a man in a rocket pack flying round the coliseum. My brother's comment at the time was that this song was 'made for sport'. It was about then that my love affair/addiction to sport began. Years later, someone once observed that the US hosting the Olympic Games is a bit like inviting your friends round to watch you masturbate.
   
2. 1986. Debby Harry's French Kissing in the USA. 1986 was my final year (there were only two) at Hutt Intermediate School. I'd had a great year with phenomenal classmates (some of whom I wonder about now and wonder where they are) but at the end of '85 things changed. My friends discovered girls and somehow I didn't. In my naivety, I knew things were different, but I knew not how and what to do about it. This song is symptomatic of the pain and confusion I felt at the time. Like a bad experience I once had with rotten tomato juice, when I hear this song I know exactly where I was. Lost and lonely on the way back from the stock cars at Te Marua in the back of a car with my friends, not knowing if they were friends any more. Awwww, the pain...
3. 1989. Schubert's Unfinished Symphony, or, as it became known to me, Smurf Music due to the violin part in the middle that also featured amongst the La la la la la la's in the theme music to the Smurfs. In fifth form at Naenae College, Lower Hutt I studied School Cert music. My teacher was the wonderful and late Mr John Hendren. We were given ten pieces of music to learn that year. Among them was Bach's Toccata and Fugue, Handel's Halleluia Chorus, Beethoven's Piano Concerto in C Minor, an unpenetratable (sp?) piece by Penderecki, and the Smurf Music. I can probably name most of the rest of the ten! Mr Hendren was an exceptionally gifted musician and a man with infinite amounts of patience and integrity. I remember us performing parts of Les Mis in the Christchurch town hall in 1987 and him insisting we remove the blasphemy from one of the pieces. That was the only time he ever imposed his faith on us. He was found dead of a heart attack in front of his computer in 1992, aged just 42. His death still guts me.
4. 1991. Robbie Robertson's Soapbox Preacher. The (equal first) CD I ever bought. From his Storyville album. I've liked RR ever since I first heard Showdown at Big Sky in the late '80s. I bought it with a new Philips mini-system that turned out to be a lemon. There is not a bad track on the album and I love the story in this particular song. It was my first year at university and I believe the student loan that remains the millstone around my neck contributed to both CD and stereo. Oh well.
   
5. 1993. Midnight Oil's Forgotten Years. In the summers of '93, '94 and '95 I lived in the small central Otago town of Roxburgh. My summer job was to work on an apricots orchard as part of the Apricots Lifestyle Evangelism mission. The grand scheme was to be a good Christian witness while working hard on the orchard. I think that in the first summer I failed both tests. The second summer I came back as a lone ranger (not as a member of Apricots) and did pretty well at both. In the third summer (and following winter) I was an excellent worker and a rather intoxicated Christian. But it is for that first summer, those salad days, that I choose this track. I had a great cottage, great cottage-mates, the summer was long, there was cricket to listen to, touch rugby to play, apricot and cheery crumbles to cook, floods to divert into the neighbours place... Probably the best summer of my life, and all the time accompanied by Midnight Oil's Blue Sky Mining. These shall not be forgotten years...
6. 1997. U2's Wake Up Dead Man. Muzz Sheard played this at a Cityside service as he placed quotes on the Overhead Projector. It made me realise that church music was not (whoops, left the 'not' out in the first post!) restricted to 'Christian Music'. Among the quotes he put up was one from I know not where that read 'The highest building in a city is the temple to its god'. The Sky tower had just been finished in Auckland. At its base is the Sky City Casino. Muzz is still a large part of my life, and a man for whom my world will always be a better place. Cityside is also one of the most important communities I have been involved with. Quality from alpha to omega.
   
7. 1999. The Mutton Bird's Last Year's Shoes. 1999 was my final year of seven at Auckland University. I was burnt out on study at this point. Throughout my seven years the Muttonbirds were a big part of my musical and university world. I can remember my friend Malcolm joyfully showing off that he had learnt the chords to In My Room by the Evangelical Union noticeboard. But LYS has a particular resonance for me. It brings back very fond memories of my girlfriend of the time, Jolinda, and how I learnt a whole lot about life and the universe with her. The only sermon I have ever preached (it was at Cityside) finished with this track. The song is essentially about change, and I find it reflects the change I was going through at the time: "lace up last years shoes, and see how they feel, you're not the same person anymore". As part of my final year I had to do a whole lot of work in a flume, shifting sand. One day I thought I was about to walk onto dry sand, but instead, to my humility, discovered that the sand was wet, and in front of a tutorial, disappeared up my waist in wet sand. "You're going to stand, in the sand, and watch them go". One of the all time great songs in my life and for so many different reasons and places.
   
8. 2000. Groove Armada's Chicago. The track that changed what I listened to and the opener to a fantastic album. I was working for Harrison Grierson in what became known as 'the Cave'. One of the people I worked with was Lance Gore (now based somewhere in the far east) and he was very influential on what I listened to (I had no choice, he'd just crank his speakers up and we'd get all sorts...). He didn't introduce this to me, rather it was Mark Pierson (another for whom life is vastly the better for him being in it), the then pastor/curator of the above mentioned Cityside Baptist. He'd lent me Vertigo (and Pitch Black's Futureproof) so that I could use them for background music for a labyrinth service. I wasn't convinced by the cover of Vertigo, but the opening hum and then drum and guitar had me hooked for life. In one moment, my music appreciation was blown wide open. I mention Lance because he fed me more and more like it. And that year in the cave in Newmarket was a hole lot of fun. Pun intended.
   
9. 2002. Mark Knopfler's What It Is. In November 2001 I moved to Edinburgh. A few months later I went home to see my sister get married. I, and my friends Sarah and Craig, were worried that I might enjoy NZ too much and not want to return to Edinburgh. I bought this on the way out and the lyrics resonated with me. I couldn't not come back after this. Whenever I hear this song I think of Edinburgh, and what a great town it is: High up on the parapet a Scottish piper stands alone and high on the wind the highland drums begin to roll and something from the past just comes and stares into my soul. Edinburgh will always be dear to my heart as will the people I shared it with for too shorter time.
   
10. 2005. Coldplay's Talk. The integral song to my soundtrack of 2005. Much of the last year was spent flying to and from the UK on Singapore Airlines. In their music on demand section was X&Y. Whenever I hear this piece I think of a 747 barrelling down a runway in the dark as it takes me home. It's that little Kraftwerk sample that keeps reappearing that does it for me. Everytime I hear it, I know where I was, and how content it made me. And it follows Fix You, with the lyric 'Lights will guide you home'. Last year they did, home to NZ and back home to Oxford.

Wow, that was some process....

Port-rated

I have today off work as I am getting a portrait done.

Jon Cairns is the man doing the work for me and it will be done somewhere in Oxford.

The trouble with me is that I am not photogenic. Now, this is no false modesty thing, it's true. I am photogenic when caught unawares, or when my back is to the camera, or it is dark. The problems only arise when I have to pose for the shot. While posing I have time to think about how I am going to set my face. Not once have I come out with a successful arrangement of my features. Invariably I come out with one of three faces. These, in order of frequency, are:

Smug (This one is on top of a truck in Namibia. I felt smug!):

Gormless:

Grumpy (I think I'm cutting my toenails in this picture):
Occasionally, it all works for me and I get Normal:

But the beer and the two attractive women helped.

I'm trusting that the at the photographer will have tricks of the trade to set me at ease. And prevent me from thinking.

You've been warned

No run today

Instead another game of squash. This time it was Idris who was used to wipe the floor. To be fair, he did get injured in the process of mopping the floor.

I think I should turn professional.

Ruth is in town this weekend. Ruth is one of those really lovely people the world dishes up every now and again. She's here for a conference and we're out for dinner tonight. Need a recommendation for a place to have dinner...

March Hare

March is going to be a cracking month. I'm starting it with The Go! Team at Oxford Brookes, then I have a week's worth of training at work. Then a week in the Czech Republic with Patrick and Jitka. Then back to Oxford for another week's worth of teaching before missing the Sigur Ros concert at Hammersmith because work has deemed it necessary that I visit Mexico. Get in there! It's a shame to miss Sigur Ros but, well, Mexico, baby!

Played squash today for the first time in six months. Wiped the floor with the IT manager. Now that feels very good. But my back and shoulders are demanding sick leave.

Walk the Line is very very good. It has to have one of my all time favourite final scenes. It's a simple scene involving a picnic by the lake, and some kids and an old man playing telephone with string and cups. Somehow it works very well with my soul. It's aesthetically pleaseing and it's been combined with elements of redemption.

Weekend activities

Last night Chris, Jim, Matt and I had a boys poker night. We agreed at the beginning that we would play for charidee, so we wouldn't get all bitter and twisted by having our friends taking money from us. This was great and theory and good in practice. It meant we could all enjoy ourselves but it did take a little bit of an edge off the betting. The cigars and brandy involved contributed to waking up this morning feeling like I'd slept in the residue of my father's back garden incinerator. Also, sadly, I woke up at 7.30am this morning...

After a morning call from Grandma, I got the call from the three year old, who requested that I come out to play. The three year old is Alexander and he is owned by my very good friends Mike and Sarah. When he calls, you come. So at 10.30 I found myself in Hinksey Park playground, sprinting towards a three year old who was sprinting back at me. There is something very moving about the unequivocal love of a small child.

Tonight I am off to see Walk the Line with Lucy and tomorrow we are planning on seeing Hidden (Cache). Both will be seen at the Phoenix, which has the advantage of a good bar.

And tomorrow morning a lie in watching Match of the Day. Apparently Chelsea lost today. Ho ho ho...

Not what I would want to see on the end of my leash

From the BBC

South African photographer Pieter Hugo's striking image shows Mallam Gahadima Ahamadu with a hyena, Jamis, in Abuja, Nigeria.

Hyena? No thanks...

On the button

22 minutes even. No blisters but I did get very cold hands.

When Christians are good

Something called the Evangelical Climate Initiative has published an evangelical call to action on climate change. The document has been signed by a number of leading evangelical Christians, including the emergent pin-up man, Brian McLaren, and Rick Warren.

This document has surprised some people:

"But from the bloody great ScienceBlogs site, a look at something unexpected: the list of signatories of leading evangelical Christians on a letter urging action on climate change. Wow. And, cool."

but not others:
"This move doesn't surprise me, evangelicals often follow the trends of the culture as a whole"

From where I perch, I'd probably have signed the document. But why is it that we Christians are only cool when we agree with the counter-culture? (Sorry, but in my opinion anybody who disagrees with the mainstream capitalist culture is probably 'counter-cultural'). And why should evangelical Christians coming out with a call to action be a surprise to some? Just a couple of thoughts for a Friday afternoon.

Now I'm off for a run to get those thoughts out of my head.

A fine (but not so old) man

The man on the right of the picture is my dad. On Sunday the 12th of February he hits the grand (but NOT old) age of 60.

The bugger of it for dad is that it being a sunday and him being a vicar, he'll have to work his birthday. And if he skives it off, his boss will know. No, not God, although he'll know also, but my mum. My mum (the one on the left) is the Archdeacon of dad's parish. I'm still not sure what the archdeacon does, but anybody with 'arch' in the title doesn't sound like someone you want to mess with.


Anyways, Happy Birthday to a fine man. You're a good man, and (now I know I've never been very good at saying it - ok, I've been bloody awful at it) I love you. May you have a great year.

Richard.

Must you people be such....

I'm somewhat disturbed that two high profile (well, high profile in NZ) newspapers, and the two main television stations in NZ have decided that the wisest course of action in response to the Muslim outrage at the publication of the cartoons featuring the prophet Mohammed with a bomb was to publish them themselves.

In fact, this is what the Dominion Post had to say about it:

Dominion Post editor Tim Pankhurst said the publication was a test of Islamic tolerance. The Press ran two of the caricatures, including the one considered most blasphemous, of the prophet Mohammed with a bomb in his turban.

It reminds me of the time I saw Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, with a Brown Snake. He commented that the snake is one of the most deadly in the world, but that it take quite a lot to provoke it. In fact, he said, I'm going to show you just how much you need to provoke it, at which point he started jabbing it with a stick. Inevitably, the snake lashed out. Not, I must point out, that I am comparing the Muslim world with a Brown Snake, oh God no. But rather to observe that you aggravate anything enough, no matter how docile or edgy it is, eventually it is going to lash out. As it is patently clear to all that the cartoons have provoked a large amount of anger around the world then what exactly was the point of that test? Putting out the fire with gasoline, anybody? Dicks.

I feel distressed that my countrymen and women have decided that the best way forward would be to print these. Hell, I'm distressed that the Danes, French, Germans, Spanish etc did it in the first place.

Humour is an integral part of my world. As a Christian, I'm used to aspects of my faith being mocked. But I'm relaxed enough in my faith to laugh at it and to admire the skill required. Hell, I'm sure (maybe I'm projecting a little here), that God laughs along at the genius that is Eddie Izzard when he takes us down the twisted road that is his mind and tells the story of Noah in a speedboat. Humour will always be a tricky business. One person's joke is often another person's offence. One of the strengths of any movement, be it anything from football to religion, is for its followers to have the ability to recognise the absurdity in it, and yet still believe. However, there need to be boundaries.

Tze Ming Mok at Public Address writes:
"Women, ethnic minorities, religious minorities, are not going to laugh at your jokes when they're unfairly at our expense. Does the fault lie with our sense of humour, or your sense of humour? Ah, postmodernism."

As thoughts in process, I realise that there is an inconsistency between the above and my statement that we need to be able to laugh at ourselves. Is it only funny if the humour is generated from within the movement? Somehow I think not. I'm still trying to work out when that is ok, and why it is seen as more acceptable for Christians to be mocked, and how they are more willing to be mocked, than, say, the Muslim world. But as I write I realise that to mock some aspects of the Christian faith would, in my opinion, be totally unacceptable.

I'm a big believer in the right to free speech. But I'm also a believer in being responsible with that right. The continued publication of such cartoons, in my opinion, crosses those boundaries.

I appreciate that these thoughts are somewhat confused, and probably the consequence of being a Guardian reading Oxford based liberal, so sorry about that. But the publication of these cartoons does make me angry and very sad.

Mok has some additional thoughts on the matter at Public Address.

Small car stories

Some people at work are going on a race from London to Ulaan Baatar. Which is in Mongolia. The race is called the Mongol Rally. The rules are very simple:

1. You can only use a car with an engine of less than 1 litre, that is generally considered to be crap.
2.You need to raise £1000 per car for charity by whatever means you see fit.
3.You are responsible for yourself.

Other than these you are free to sneak, bribe, cheat, connive and generally out-wit the world to get yourselves to Ulaan Baatar. In fact you will probably have to.

Now... I have a car that has a 1 litre engine, and there's no question my L reg Micra is crap.

Maybe not this summer, but next summer this little trip might be an option. Mr K, I'm thinking that you would be a great co-pilot.

I'm still reading!

Sometimes I binge read. Right now I'm loving the thought that at home is a book waiting for me, and it was wonderful reading on the bus into London last night. So much more pleasant than driving. Last week it was The Kite Runner. This week it is The Time Traveller's Wife. It took me a while and a reassuring conversation with Wendy to get into it. And it has proved to be worth it.

The reason it proved difficult to get into is that it is a rather complicated idea in that the lead character, Henry, travels back and forward in time. However, he is restricted to only travelling to places in his and his future wife's lives. So no dinosaurs or Jesus for him, then. Each chapter is introduced with a date and a reference to the age of Henry. Sometimes he meets himself so a chapter might begin with something like 24 December, 1991. Henry is 24 and 36. That's when it gets downright confusing. Usefully it's all written in the first person so it is possible to work it out. But sometimes it is a bit like the film Momento. Incidentially, do not search for the hidden extra on the DVD for that film. There is a hidden bonus feature where you can see it in chronological order. Don't do it, it only makes it worse. I saw it and was so much more confused.

I'm now 200+ pages into it and I think I've cracked it, and that has proved rather rewarding. It's a bit like a pistachio nut that you really struggle to get into, but when you go, it's oh so good. Incidentially, the best tool to open a pistachio with is one of those curved cheese knives with the two fork prongs on the end. Those two prongs work a treat on the tight ones.

Suddenly Gigging

At 16:09 yesterday I see that I have a missed call from a London number I don't recognise. Two minutes later I get this in my inbox:

From: Jon March [mailto:Jon.March@XXXXXXXXX]
Sent: 01 February 2006 16:11
To: Richard Body
Subject: call me..

Offer of a lifetime…gimme a call at the office cos I don’t have my mobile on me…

020XXXXXXXX

thanks mate…

Now, the last time I received the offer of a life time from Jon it concerned a very cheap digital camera that never arrived, although to be fair that was more a consequence of Apple's deliberately ambigious terms and conditions. However, I'm curious so I call him. Ten minutes later I'm in my car speeding to Oxford to catch the Oxford Tube (note to peeps out there, after about 3, I think, return fares to London are only £8, and that's cheaper than petrol I would use to drive) to Shepherd's Bush Empire to see Jose Gonzalez. Who? You're all asking. Well... have you seen the advert for the plasma screen TV where all the bouncy balls are bouncing down the streets of San Fran? The fantastic acoustic background music is Jose's song Heartbeats.


The gig itself was great, very low-key and very simple. I got to thinking that the bar staff at the SBE have one of the best jobs in the world. The bar is located in the best spot in the venue, obscuring the stage from large parts of the standing area at the back (how ridiculous is that?) and on this night nobody was buying much so the bar staff could just chill. Jon and I perch ourselves on the edge of the bar so we can rest our beers on something and get a view of the stage. Why does beer taste so awful when you have a cold? Towards the end of the gig he starts to play a track that I vaguely recognise (so far I've only recognised Heartbeats). I say to Jon that this is a cover. He stops for a second, and says "yeah, it's Teardrops by Massive Attack", and he's right, Jose has just launched into an outstanding version of it. Then he finishes up, everyone, including the cute barstaff beside me are, in raptures. Divine.

Ten minutes later I'm back on the Oxford Tube listening to Nightmares on Wax and at 12.30am I'm tucked up in bed. Apparently earlier that evening Rio Ferdinand had been sent off for Man U. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

Music for a Monday night

Every six months or so I put a Beth Orton album on. I remember in the hazy times of my twenties her video for She Cries Your Name, and thought she looked a little like a friend of mine. The next time I encountered her was in 1999 driving home to Northcote on Auckland's North Shore and hearing Stolen Car from Central Reservation. It was a sunny afternoon as I sped along the Northcote off-ramp on the Northern Motorway. And I loved it. It's a rare thing that I can place the first time I heard a song. (About the only other ones I can think of is Chicago from Groove Armada's Vertigo (one of the songs that changed my world), and Snappy from the Groove Armada Back to Mine mix album. Both were in my office at Harrison Grierson in Newmarket). But back to Beth. Every now and again I seem to bump into her. Once it was on a Chemical Brothers album (Come With Us) and another time it was on a William Orbit mix. Strange Cargo 3, I think.

As I say, every six months or so I put her on and almost invariably she hits the spot. Tonight she was the background to a candlelit (ha!) MSN conversation with a very good pal and accompanied by the end of the Chianti from Saturday night.

More on Jim's sermon

I've just listened to Jim's sermon again. My initial blog on this simply does not do it justice. My sincere apologies, Jim, for forgetting the main point of your sermon.

For the rest of you, I really encourage you to listen to it. I can't summarise his point anymore eloquently than how Jim has already spoken it.

But I've removed some of the more trite aspects of the original entry. Actually, I've rewritten it a whole lot.

Thanks, Jim. That was something special.

An inappropriate forum

This weekend Idris watched the entire first series of Lost. All 25 episodes or seventeen and a half hours of it. Last night he texted me to ask me what it's all about.

Assuming I could explain it, somehow explaining it via text message didn't seem the best forum...

Bliss...

...is waking up at 8.30am on a Sunday morning and drifting in and out of sleep in a warm bed while watching the Australian Open men's final.

Music for a Sunday night...

...Fat Mama from Herbie Hancock's Fat Albert Rotunda. Divine jazz-funk.

The man, the movement, the machine, the monument

Update: The podcast is there now. Say a prayer for Jim when you listen to it.

Tonight at hOME, Jim preached on the presentation of the infant Jesus at the temple. In preaching on this, he talked about the four stages of the development of a movement. I'm thinking I'm going to have to listen to this again. There is a podcast of it here. Anyhoos, Jim referred to the fours stages of the development of a movement. Those four stages being:

I: The man/woman who has an idea. If you like you can go with Jesus as the man/woman. The man/woman with the idea generates...
II: ...a movement. Going with the Jesus analogy you can go with the disciples and the crowds who in turn...
III: ...generate a machine. Sticking with the Jesus thing, this would be the theology. Finally, the machine needs a house so we get...
IV: ...the monument.

And somewhere along the line we sucked into a position where we worship the movement, the machine or the monument. Where they became sacred and we can't tinker with them. Because they're scared. It's a bit like a celebrity who is famous for being famous. And Jim made the point that we are not only called to worship the man/woman, but also to follow them too. Which isn't to say that movement/machine/monument are bad, because they aren't in themselves, but to recognise where they are assisting our understanding the man/woman. It reminds me of the R.E.M song where Michael Stipe sings 'I can't say that I love Jesus, that would be a hollow claim. He did make some observations and I'm quoting them today'. Sometimes I think I walk a very fine line between loving the man and loving the idea of Jesus. Maybe that's the narrow path.

In describing the four stages, Jim tried to reconcile the four stages to the very recent and very raw death of a close friend of his. In reminding us that we are called to follow the man, not the movement, we are invited to see how we can walk with our fellow men and women when they suffer. He quotes Churchill; 'when you find yourself walking through hell, keep going'. Jim then invited us to follow Jesus as we share the pain with those in suffering

Geddit? Oh damnit, just listen to the podcast. It's only thirteen minutes long.

Just some food for thought on a Sunday night.

Nomal Service

A couple of conversations have steadied the ship. The first was with Megs, where she told me to be a man. Quite right. I'm 31 for goodness sake. After all the supportive conversations, it was jolly useful to have someone lavishly take the piss out of me.

The second was with Jim and Anne last night over dinner. Jim's a great fan of technology. Anne would rather it wasn't there at all. We had a very pleasant evening over a bottle of Chianti and a chicken pasta dinner. Anne questioned the whole point of blogdom, and finds reading them rather invasive, much like another friend of mine. Jim's response is that blogdom is what you make it to be and that in my case mine has always been rather personal. Except for that period where I went through a series of badly written gig reviews. What was I thinking?? Anyways, the conclusion that was arrived at was that it's good to talk about stuff out loud, but there is a time and a place for it. It's useful for people to talk about their issues, and I think we all should do. However, I think I've taken it too far. So... let's just acknowledge that there is some crap in my world, and that I'm talking about it with people. I'm just not doing it here. And that's why some posts have mysteriously disappeared.

Now that feels better. So less angsty drama queen stuff here.

Phew!

22:20

No blisters.

From the Kite Runner

"I loved him because he was my friend, but also because he was a good man, maybe even a great man. And this is what I want you to understand, that good, real good, was born out of your father's remorse. Sometimes, I think everything he did, feeding the poor on the streets, building the orphanage, giving money to friends in need, it was all his way of redeeming himself. And that, I believe, is what true redemption is, Amir jan, when guilt leads to good.

I know that in the end, God will forgive. He will forgive your father, me and you too. I hope you can do the same. Forgive your father if you can. Forgive me if you wish. But most important, forgive yourself."

-Khaled Hosseini

Hijacking

Ryanair is now going to charge passengers for checking in baggage. Every item checked in after March 16 will incur a £2.50 charge. Well, well, well... Fancy a passenger wanting to have luggage. We have to pay for the seat, the food and now the luggage. Maybe they'll start charging for the safety announcement. This latest charge aggravates me so very much.

And how will passengers respond? I bet they respond by not checking in anything and carrying bigger and bigger pieces of luggage on board as carry-on baggage. The amount of people currently dragging oversized bags on board and blocking the narrow aisles is already frustrating, and this is only going to make things so much worse.

They're having a giraffe.

As high as a kite

On Saturday night I was at a bit of a loose end. When I mentioned this to Wendy she asked me what I was reading. I replied that I hadn't been reading anything for months. She suggested then I that I wander down to Borders, find a book and then go home and read it. She recommended The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. So I duly took myself down to Borders and bought the said book. But I also picked up Himalaya by Michael Palin, as I'm hoping to visit Mike and Sarah (and the delightful Caragh, Mari and Alex, my favourite little people) when they move to Nepal in October, and The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

I started on the latter book first and I am loving it. It's the story of a rather selfish boy growing up in the 1970's in Afghanistan and his relationship with his servant and his father. I'm only a hundred pages or so into it, but I am absolutely taken by it.

I should point out that on Saturday night after returning from Borders I didn't actually read any of the books. Oh no, I watched the Peacemaker with Clooney and Kidman, and followed it up with Match of the Day....

On the Beach

I have to put this here so I can change my display photo. I need to give blogger a link to play with. This photo is remarkable in that I think I have actually been photographed well here. There is only a little bit of smugness on display.

Apparently it needed to be smaller.

Instant karma - it's gonna get you

Yesterday while having breakfast I spotted a mouse running across the floor. So last night I set a trap and this morning had the task of throwing the mouse (or another one very like it) into the rubbish bin.

Then this morning I went out to scrape ice off my car. When I reached my car I discovered that I no longer had an intact rear windscreen. Instead it was all over my boot and backseat.

Idris insists I had a meeting with karma. But I think he's a hippy.

Re-Run

22:30 today. How the hell did I improve by 2:17 in two days?

I also improved my blister count.

The Blues

On Monday night, when I was a little low, I caught The Simpsons. It is the one were Lisa is sent out of class for 'feeling sad'. Late in the show she meets bluesman Bleeding Gums Murphy. She plays the Blues with him. At the end she observes that she doesn't feel any better. His response?

"The Blues isn't about feeling better, it's about making other people feel worse, and making a few bucks while you're at it."

This still makes me smile.

A New Day

Today I am feeling a lot more hopeful about it all. Whatever 'it' is. I went to sleep last night feeling at ease with my world and where I am in my world. Somehow it felt certain that I was being remembered in prayers and that was comforting. And someone has reminded me that it's best not to make rash decisions until I'm in a more peaceful frame of mind. Wise words. Although it seems a bit of an oxymoron to make a rash decision when peaceful...

So today I feel ok. Not so naive to believe I'm fixed.

I ran three miles at lunch with my friend Wiki. Did it in 24 minutes and 47 seconds. It's the first time I've run in months. Two blisters to show for it and after an hour I am finally regaining some strength in my arms. I'm not sure if I feel better for it!

By the way

To deal with and understand things that are on my mind, I often talk about them. It allows me to cope with them. For far too much of my life I kept things inside and that was unhealthy.

If my airing of things that affect me in public bothers you, or makes you uncomfortable, too bad. Deal with it. I am.

The Military Industrial Complex

(This one isn't about me)

On the Daily Show tonight, Jon Stewart interviewed Eugene Jarecki who has made a film called "Why We Fight". The film is an examination of why we go to war. In the film he quotes a speech made by Dwight D. Eisenhower that was made three days before he finished his second term as President of the US. For those of you who don't know much about Eisenhower, he was the mastermind behind the D-Day landings and was the supreme commander of the allied forces in their attempt to defeat Hitler. So a man with a lot of background in the armed forces, and one who had been initmately involved with them for fifty years.

In the speech, made in 1960 he makes the following extraordinary warning about the Military Industrial Complex (indeed, I think he coined the phrase):

"Until the latest of our world conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with time and as required, make swords as well. But now we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of national defense; we have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment. We annually spend on military security more than the net income of all United States corporations.

This conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence -- economic, political, even spiritual -- is felt in every city, every State house, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources and livelihood are all involved; so is the very structure of our society."

The next bit is particularly astonishing for a man in his position to declare:

"In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.

We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."

Fate

In response to the previous entry, my pal Jolinda suggested that I toss a coin. My response to her was to tell her that tossing a coin frightens me so much I can't even think about it. Now what does that say about my approach to fate? Even thinking about a 'dummy toss' makes me recoil.

Fate? It's a crock of shit, isn't it?

Botswana

(Don't look for meaning in the title because, unless you're Justice, Anita or myself, you simply won't find any).

Further to this and the title (only) of this, I have the following:

I am not content anymore in Oxford. This discontentment has been around since about September 2005, which is coincidentially about the same time as I got back from my last trip home. To New Zealand, that is. In reality, this is probably no coincidence. The discontentment rears its head in various forms and at various times. It's not a consequence of how I cam feeling today, or yesterday, or last week, rather I am sure I have noticed a pattern developing since September. And my gut feeling right now is that something has to change. At the moment it seems that it is the UK that is most at risk and I am feeling a very strong desire to return to New Zealand.

Last October I made an agreement with myself, and with Jim that I would not leave from something, rather I would have to leave to go to something. I don't want to be in a state of feeling that I am running from something. It's an agreement this week I also asked Megan to hold me to. But there are a lot of people in NZ that would be worth leaving to go to. But I'm not so naive to spot that a move to NZ would result in the grief of people left behind here. Once upon a time I used to mock some of my friends who's OE lasted less than a year. Now, to some extent at least, I envy them. The decision making process for them was a no-brainer. They went on holiday for a year and then they came back. NOT, I would stress, that I regret any of my time here. I have, for the most part, had a great time here. I've made friends I hope I will have for life and I've learnt things about me and my world that I could never have discovered if I'd stayed at home. There are places I've seen, one just across the border from Botswana, that have astonished me. And there are communities and ideas that I have learnt about that I would never have been open to had I stayed in NZ. But my thoughts right now is that maybe it is time to knock it on its head, hell, it's been over four years.

As Justice said to me last night there is no good time to go home. But you have to make that decision at some time. A valid decision being, of course, to decide to not go home. Today, I am closer than I have been in four years to deciding to go home.

Fortunately, I guess, it would take about three months to pack up my life so this would not be a rushed decision. Besides, I really want to be here for A and J's wedding in June.

Peace

I saw a man
He was holding the hand
That had fired a gun at his heart
Oh, will we live to forgive?
I saw the eyes
And the look of surprise
As he left an indelible mark
Oh, will we live to forgive?
Come find release
Go make your peace
Follow his lead
Let the madness recede
When we shatter the cycle of pain
Oh, we will live to forgive
Come find release
Go make your peace
I saw a man
With a hole in His hand
Who could offer the miracle cure
Oh, He said live
I forgive

-Steve Taylor

There's no use denying it

Right now, I want to go home.

Grumpy Old Men

In response to my Saturday night out, a friend has sent me this.

Bah Humbug!

Born before 1986?

According to today's regulators and bureaucrats, those of us who were kids in the 60's, 70's and early 80's probably shouldn't have survived, because our baby cots were covered with brightly coloured lead-based paint, which was promptly chewed and licked.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, or latches on doors or cabinets and it was fine to play with pans.

When we rode our bikes, we wore no helmets, just flip-flops and fluorescent 'spokey-dokey's' on our wheels.

As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or airbags and riding in the passenger seat was a treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle and it tasted the same.

We ate chips, bread and butter pudding and drank fizzy juice with sugar in it, but we were never overweight because we were always outside playing.

We shared one drink with four friends, from one bottle or can and no-one actually died from this.

We would spend hours building go-carts out of scraps and then went top speed down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into stinging nettles a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We would leave home in the morning and could play all day, as long as we were back before it got dark. No one was able to reach us and no one minded.

We did not have Play stations or X-Boxes, no video games at all. No 99 channels on TV, no videotape movies, no surround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers, no DVDs, no Internet chat rooms.

We had friends - we went outside and found them. We played elastics and rounders, and sometimes that ball really hurt!&n bsp; We fell out of trees, got cut, and broke bones but there were no law suits. We had full on fist fights but no prosecution followed from other parents.

We played knock-the-door-run-away and were actually afraid of the owners catching us.

We walked to friends' homes.

We also, believe it or not, WALKED to school; we didn't rely on mummy or daddy to drive us to school, which was just round the corner.

We made up games with sticks and tennis balls. We rode bikes in packs of 7 and wore our coats by only the hood. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke a law was unheard of...they actually sided with the aw.

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers and problem solvers and inventors, ever. The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all. And you're one of them. Congratulations!

Pass this on to others, who have had the luck to grow as real kids, before lawyers and government regulated our lives, for our own good. For those of you who aren't old enough, thought you might like to read about us.

This my friends, is surprisingly frightening......and it might put a smile on your face:

The majority of students in universities today were born in 1986... They are called youth. They have never heard of We are the World, We are the children, and the Uptown Girl they know is by Westlife not Billy Joel. They have never heard of Rick Astley, Bananarama, Nena Cherry or Belinda Carlisle.

For them, there has always been only one Germany and one Vietnam.

AIDS has existed since they were born.

CD's have existed since they were born.

Michael Jackson has always been white.

To them John Travolta has always been round in shape and they can't imagine how this fat guy could be a god of dance.

They believe that Charlie's Angels and Mission Impossible are films from last year.

They can never imagine life before computers.

They'll never have pretended to be the A-Team, the Dukes of Hazard or the Famous Five.

They can't believe a black and white television ever existed. And they will never understand how we could leave the house without a mobile phone.

Now let's check if we're getting old...

1. You understand what was written above and you smile.
2. You need to sleep more, usually until the afternoon, after a night out.
3. Your friends are getting married/already married
4. You are always surprised to see small children playing comfortably with computers.
5. When you see children with mobile phones, you shake your head.

Having read this, you are thinking of forwarding it to some other friends because you think they will like it too... Yes, you're getting old!!

A very silly game

My friend Justice has come up with a new game. He has called it the "Are your initials also an airport code game" game. See if you guess the rules.

I come in as Buraimi airport in Oman.

Vital Stats:

City	:	Buraimi
Country	:	Oman
Country Abbrev.	:	OM
World Area Code	:	658
GMT Offset	:	-4.0
Longitude	:	55° 47' 0" E
Latitude	:	24° 15' 0" N

Well, it killled five minutes. And then I started looking up my friends... Your website resource is www.world-airport-codes.com. No, really.

Note: The winner for the most interesting airport so far is my colleague, Sue. Her SDA gives her, wait for it, Baghdad International...

The Best of Oxford

I am (or was) a champion of Oxford. I still love it but that love is not what it once was. In order to to rekindle what it once grabbed me about this place and also to make the most out of this place I think I'm going to need some input from you lot.

So... I'm going to try and create a list of the best things and places in Oxford. I was thinking pubs, clubs, walks, barber shops, shoe shops, bridges, parks, live venues, indian restaurants, oxford bands, coffee shops, punt wharves, corner stores, music shops, cinemas, theatres, places for Sunday breakfast... Whatever it is that makes this place great.

I'm going with:
Pub: used to be the Marlborough House till it changed hands so now I'm going for the Lamb and Flag
Clubs: Pass. Maybe Anuba?
Walks: Across Hinksey Park to Hinksey Village
Barber Shops: the one above the department store on Turl St
Shoe Shops: Jones
Bridge: Folly Bridge. At night. In the Snow.
Park: South Parks in the summer with a frisbee
Live Venue: The Zodiac. By default. A serious weakness in Oxford
Indian Restaurant: Aziz
Oxford Band: Radiohead
Coffee shop: I don't drink coffee so will go with the Nosebag tea rooms
Punting Wharf: Cherwell Boathouse. Go upriver from there
Corner store: Londis on the corner of Newton and Abingdon Roads
Music Store: Polar Bear because the staff take the piss out of you.
Cinema: The Phoenix. By default.
Theatre: Pass...
Sunday breakfast: The French place on Little Clarendon St.

Your answers and suggestions for extra fields on a postcard please!

Dinner with the Stars

Tonight I went for a curry with Matt and Chris at Chutney's in Oxford. It was a very tasty dinner (with very expensive rice). Sharing the room was a long table of very loud, very annoying, and (I was assuming at the time) very teenage girls. Chris writes about who they actually are... Given that the main protagonist is aged 15, one wonders what they were doing being served alcohol.

Geekdom

I've been out of the mathematical side of engineering now for quite some time now. As a result I sometimes struggle to solve tricky mathematical problems. So it came as a moment of triumph today when I managed to solve the following:

My colleague Emily wanted to know how many combinations could be made from a set of five objects, where you could not repeat any of the objects and where order didn't matter. For example, if you had the objects 1, 2 and 3, then the following combinations were available: 1, 2, 3, 12, 13, 23, and 123. That is, there are six. Now I know I could do them all by hand, but say for a large number of objects, eg 100, that would be a lot more tricky. So after trial and error I triumphantly came up with:

Number of combinations = Sum from 1 to i of nCi, where
i = the number of objects that can be chosen
n = the number of objects to choose from, and
C = the combinations derived from n!/((n-i)!*i!), where n!=n*n-1*n-2*...*n-(n+1)
or:






Solving this makes feel less thick, despite the fact that the maths are not that complex...

Yes, I know I'm a geek.

With a small car.

Can someone remind me again, why exactly did we go to war?

My favourite TV channel (it scares me that I should have a favourite TV channel), More 4, is running a series of programs this week on the war in Iraq. More 4 is the place that Guardian readers watch TV; with a line up that includes The Daily Show, West Wing and numerous documentaries put together by Jon Snow it's not a surprise that it attracts naive idealistic yet cynical liberals like myself.

Last night they had an hour and a half long investigation on why we (the UK) went to war. It began in 2001 with (an actor playing) Tony Blair in Brighton being told to turn on the TV only for him to see the second tower being hit. From there it went through the discussions that he had with GWB and his cabinet. From the very beginning he appeared to declare to GWB that he/we (an important distinction that no one seems to pick up on) were with him/the US (another distinction we need to clarify) from the very beginning and would be with him to the end. Even when GWB states his intention to attack Afghanistan, then Iraq, and then "we will see", Blair tells Bush that "no matter waht you decide, we're with you". At which point one of his advisors asks what exactly he has just committed to.

Throughout, as increasing pressure was placed on Blair from his colleagues and from the public (not to mention France, Germany, Belgium...) he seemed increasingly backed into his corner of solidarity with the US/GWB. Every now and again GWB would through him a bone when things got tough domestically (agreeing to the second UN resolution or publicly declaring the special relationship between the US and the UK) but as time wore on the impression you got from the Blair was that he wanted to be seen to validate the inevitable US invasion of Iraq so that they weren't seen to be acting unilaterally, and thus show that it was an international response. At the same time, the impression I got of the US was that to have the Brits onside was a nice bonus, but to them it really didn't matter. At one point GWB is alledged to have to Blair that if he wants he can back out now but that he could feel free to come and help clean up the mess. Blair pauses before spluttering a reminder that he/we were with them from the beginning and would be with them till the end.

The resignations of Clare Short and Robin Cook are desparately sad.

The documentary ended with Blair alone in his office and the phone ringing. He answers it. He says "what? OK, but I thought we were starting tomorrow night?". He turns on the TV to discover that the war has started. GWB hadn't the decency to inform the other part of the 'special relationship' when the war was starting.

Looking back, I find it mindboggling that this actually happened. There seems a need to pinch myself to be sure that this is true. I'm astonished that these decisions were made and I remain frightened of what is to come. And I am upset with myself that on the day of the anti-war march I decided to play cricket. I should have been in London.

So why did we go to war? Don't tell me it was the WMD or Al Qaeda 'cos that aint it...

Cross Maltese (Photo Essay 2)

I went to Malta with Chris last week. I had a nice time but I found the Maltese to be a surly lot. So instead of rabitting on about the rabit cuisine and the dodgy roads, here are some pictures. For the technically minded amongst you these photos were taken using a digital camera that has a lens.


The tip of Valletta looking across Marsamxett Harbour

Young Maltese fishing in Grand Harbour

The WW2 Siege Memorial and Grand Harbour. When this bell rings (as it does at 12pm every day) it is loud.

There are lots of guns and walls in Malta. This gun is manned by a bear. Maltese beer was very drinkable, unless of course you bought it off-site and stored it in the hotel mini bar, because if you did the Maltese hotel staff would lock the fridge.

Chris and the funky cold Mdina. Mdina is known as the 'Silent City'. Not when it's being repaved it isn't.

The Dingli explosives factory. I kept out.

The par 4, third hole of the Giant's golf course. 640,468,500 yards, includes a siginficant water hazard.

The direction of the green for the third hole of the Giant's golf course. Rain is coming in from the Med.
A Canadian with a View

A Kiwi ignoring the view

The Temple at Hagar Qim. Together with the temple at Mnajdra these are the oldest free standing man made structures on earth. They are reckoned to have been built in 3600BC.

A Kiwi with a Mnajdra temple complex

The Blue Grotto. The boat trip was worth the admisson price to Malta alone. If you go to Malta, you must see this place by boat. The colours in the water do your head in.

Would you trust these people to do your spray painting? Look very carefully at the next picture (you might need to click on it to magnify it).

See?

A contemplative (posing) Kiwi with a sea view.

Photo Essay 1

Just one photo of Caravaggio's crucifix that hangs in St John's Co-Cathedral in Valletta, Malta. More to come tomorrow...

Gig 2

Sigur Ros at the Hammersmith Carling Insert Corporate Sponsor Here Apollo on March 28.

Matt/Jim I will sort my own tickets out for this so Martin can have the spare one.

Gig 1

The Go! Team on March 5 in Oxford.