So I was in Durham this weekend. All I knew about Durham before visiting was that it was the origin of the legendary birdwatching fanatic, Kitchen Mark, so already Durham had a giant gold star in my book. However, Kitchen Mark has been soiling the streets of Aberdeen for over a decade, and there's a new kid on the block in Durham, the legendary literary deconstructionist, non-kitchen Maebh. In fact, Maebh has been in Durham for two years and I'd been promising from way back then to visit, only finally now being true to my word.
And, well, wasn't it a lovely visit? I thought I was fully prepared to deal with Maebh's awesome beauty, but somehow she'd cranked up the honey factor yet another gear, leaving me convinced that within her DNA the very secret of eternal youth must lurk. Truly a scientific wonder. And a literary one too, as she ploughs through a PhD on deconstructionist maestro Derrida, a topic my very own PA, herself an English PhD student (a criticial analysis of a Walter Scott poem) described as "difficult".
The Friday evening I arrived was one of Maebh's housewarming party, in a real house, which in a nutshell was a gathering of Durham uberstudents drinking tons and tons of red wine. Very enjoyable, and I regaled to one and all my tales of the seas, aboard destitute rigs in hostile climes. All the girls swooned, I'm happy to report.
Remarkably, my health wasn't ruined the next day, save for some fuzziness, and so Maebh and I took a little wander round Durham, and I admired its beauty and she reminded me it was in fact really quite small and the nightlife wasn't raging. As we know each other from Korea, we remembered these days fondly, harking back to that carefree lifestyle and the quirks and mania of rather a unique nation. And of course, we took a look at Durham cathedral, which I can confirm is really quite big. And thus I shall end my writing now, and bombard you with photos.
Or I would if I could get this damn thing to work. Screw this, I'm hungry, I'll put these photos up later.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Friday, 22 August 2008
My Poor Late PA
My poor PA was late last night.
For those who know me well, they will also know that it's best not to be late for an appointment with me. I regard myself as extremely punctual - a family trait that would see us in the car, leaving for a holiday at precisely 8am each time. If I arrange to meet my sister somewhere, we'll arrive at exactly the same time, five minutes before the time agreed. My ten minute walk to school would have each road crossing and landmark timed to the second, with the bell going just as I came into view of the main door. I would rather be twenty minutes early than five minutes late and pride myself on never being late. Let's not mention helicopters here though...
As I say, my friends are well versed in this. Most of my friends are pretty good with time anyway, but some have had to learn the hard way. For though I'll forgive the occasional lapse, and I'm aware that sometimes unexpected delays can occur, when it comes to chronic late time-keeping my patience wears extremely thin, and it's one of the few faux pas that can still turn me from a gentle sweet man to a raging fury. My good friend Emily suffered heavily some years back. With a genetic disposition for being twenty or more minutes late for everything, our friendship creaked under the strain of her late arrival and my built-up temper; it is with great pride that I can say that these days she is never late, for me at least. I broke up with my girlfriend in Korea in large part due to her lateness. She would almost always be half an hour late for every meeting we ever had. This soon became a major issue. Because our meetings would inevitably begin with me ranting or in a mad huff, and with her in a panicked fluster. "Korean girls are always late - it's Korean culture," she would claim, but that didn't wash me with me. She became scared to even meet me if she knew she'd be more than five minutes late, and one time this fear translated into not turning up at all. As you can imagine, things didn't last long after that.
On my part, I feel my impatience is justified. You wouldn't be late for a job interview, or a meeting with your boss, so why should you be late for a friend? Especially if someone is waiting outside, it's just plain rude to leave them hanging around there. I'm not unreasonable, I allow for five minutes of lateness, but once we enter that sixth minute my blood begins to boil. And no, a text message at the agreed time of meeting warning of lateness will not do. In fact, it just makes it worse.
And so my poor PA came a cropper of this pet hate of mine.
For a couple of weeks, there's been a double bed in my van. My PA put it there, as it was being moved from a friend's flat to her mother's home. I've not needed the van much in the last two weeks so it's been no big deal, but I was hoping she'd sort it out sooner rather than later. However, as she's not insured to drive it, it was kind of dependent upon me getting round to it. Then, two days ago, new sofas were delivered to my fifth flat, and so I suddenly needed the van to take away the old crappy ones. Two or three times we arranged to get the bed delivered, but each time was cancelled, because of her mother being out, or forgetting to leave the keys , or something. Fortunately, the new tenants of the fifth flat haven't moved in yet, but they've started paying and could move in at any time, therefore it was only professional of me to make sure their new home wasn't clogged up with sofas, so I was very keen to get them out as quickly as possible.
Finally, a time of 8pm yesterday was set, and set in stone as far as I could tell. Rather, her mother would be home at this time, therefore I reckoned if we were ready to at about 7.40pm, the timing would work out well. My PA wasn't in when I went to fetch the van, through the pouring rain, and when I tried calling her her phoned appeared to be switched off our out of batteries. I parked the van on double yellow lines and came back to the flat, but she still wasn't around. It was still before 8 though, and so I supposed she'd just be back for then. Her phone still didn't respond.
At 8.05pm I received a text message - "here in twenty minutes!" Hmm, one, now two cardinal sins. I put some music on, tried to relax, but found myself getting wound up and unjable to concentrate. Twenty minutes passed, no sign, and still no phone response. Thirty minutes, forty, then fifty, and by now by blood was fully boiled. The album I'd put on had finished and my rage had peaked. "Given up. We do this 9am tomorrow" I texted her, and stormed out of the flat, and went round to Green's for a beer and Seinfeld, and to calm down.
My PA arrived back about ten minutes later, it seems, and tried to phone me but I ignored her calls. This was for the best, as I was in a fully-aware rage and fully aware I would be extremely impolite and unreasonable if I spoke to her, so just sent her a message telling her stop phoning me and I'd be calmed down in a while. It was a lucky break for her she didn't see me then because it's the biggest rage I've had in a while - but then, no-one's been late for me in quite a while. And when I did get back, I was returned to a nice mellow state, and was able to greet my poor PA merrily, with no inclination to snap at her. She was almost in tears, and I felt quite bad to be honest, but at least it will have taught her to be dead on time in future. We moved the bed and sofa today, a mere half-hour job, and the air was again rosy.
In other news, I've now passed the six week mark at home, which is a personal record for the last two years, and am actually getting quite impatient to go away again. Not just for financial reasons, but just because I miss the smell of the rigs, the burning fumes, the sweaty men, and the salty sea air. It looks like I'll be on a mini-job next week, but only for a few days. Still no big jobs imminent.
For today, I'm going to Durham in a couple of hours, to reunite with the divine Maebh, for whom adjectives cannot ever adequately describe her radiance, and whom I've not seen in over two and half years, despite many broken promises to visit her. But finally I've made the time. The train leaves at 1.21pm today. I won't be late (and it better not be).
For those who know me well, they will also know that it's best not to be late for an appointment with me. I regard myself as extremely punctual - a family trait that would see us in the car, leaving for a holiday at precisely 8am each time. If I arrange to meet my sister somewhere, we'll arrive at exactly the same time, five minutes before the time agreed. My ten minute walk to school would have each road crossing and landmark timed to the second, with the bell going just as I came into view of the main door. I would rather be twenty minutes early than five minutes late and pride myself on never being late. Let's not mention helicopters here though...
As I say, my friends are well versed in this. Most of my friends are pretty good with time anyway, but some have had to learn the hard way. For though I'll forgive the occasional lapse, and I'm aware that sometimes unexpected delays can occur, when it comes to chronic late time-keeping my patience wears extremely thin, and it's one of the few faux pas that can still turn me from a gentle sweet man to a raging fury. My good friend Emily suffered heavily some years back. With a genetic disposition for being twenty or more minutes late for everything, our friendship creaked under the strain of her late arrival and my built-up temper; it is with great pride that I can say that these days she is never late, for me at least. I broke up with my girlfriend in Korea in large part due to her lateness. She would almost always be half an hour late for every meeting we ever had. This soon became a major issue. Because our meetings would inevitably begin with me ranting or in a mad huff, and with her in a panicked fluster. "Korean girls are always late - it's Korean culture," she would claim, but that didn't wash me with me. She became scared to even meet me if she knew she'd be more than five minutes late, and one time this fear translated into not turning up at all. As you can imagine, things didn't last long after that.
On my part, I feel my impatience is justified. You wouldn't be late for a job interview, or a meeting with your boss, so why should you be late for a friend? Especially if someone is waiting outside, it's just plain rude to leave them hanging around there. I'm not unreasonable, I allow for five minutes of lateness, but once we enter that sixth minute my blood begins to boil. And no, a text message at the agreed time of meeting warning of lateness will not do. In fact, it just makes it worse.
And so my poor PA came a cropper of this pet hate of mine.
For a couple of weeks, there's been a double bed in my van. My PA put it there, as it was being moved from a friend's flat to her mother's home. I've not needed the van much in the last two weeks so it's been no big deal, but I was hoping she'd sort it out sooner rather than later. However, as she's not insured to drive it, it was kind of dependent upon me getting round to it. Then, two days ago, new sofas were delivered to my fifth flat, and so I suddenly needed the van to take away the old crappy ones. Two or three times we arranged to get the bed delivered, but each time was cancelled, because of her mother being out, or forgetting to leave the keys , or something. Fortunately, the new tenants of the fifth flat haven't moved in yet, but they've started paying and could move in at any time, therefore it was only professional of me to make sure their new home wasn't clogged up with sofas, so I was very keen to get them out as quickly as possible.
Finally, a time of 8pm yesterday was set, and set in stone as far as I could tell. Rather, her mother would be home at this time, therefore I reckoned if we were ready to at about 7.40pm, the timing would work out well. My PA wasn't in when I went to fetch the van, through the pouring rain, and when I tried calling her her phoned appeared to be switched off our out of batteries. I parked the van on double yellow lines and came back to the flat, but she still wasn't around. It was still before 8 though, and so I supposed she'd just be back for then. Her phone still didn't respond.
At 8.05pm I received a text message - "here in twenty minutes!" Hmm, one, now two cardinal sins. I put some music on, tried to relax, but found myself getting wound up and unjable to concentrate. Twenty minutes passed, no sign, and still no phone response. Thirty minutes, forty, then fifty, and by now by blood was fully boiled. The album I'd put on had finished and my rage had peaked. "Given up. We do this 9am tomorrow" I texted her, and stormed out of the flat, and went round to Green's for a beer and Seinfeld, and to calm down.
My PA arrived back about ten minutes later, it seems, and tried to phone me but I ignored her calls. This was for the best, as I was in a fully-aware rage and fully aware I would be extremely impolite and unreasonable if I spoke to her, so just sent her a message telling her stop phoning me and I'd be calmed down in a while. It was a lucky break for her she didn't see me then because it's the biggest rage I've had in a while - but then, no-one's been late for me in quite a while. And when I did get back, I was returned to a nice mellow state, and was able to greet my poor PA merrily, with no inclination to snap at her. She was almost in tears, and I felt quite bad to be honest, but at least it will have taught her to be dead on time in future. We moved the bed and sofa today, a mere half-hour job, and the air was again rosy.
In other news, I've now passed the six week mark at home, which is a personal record for the last two years, and am actually getting quite impatient to go away again. Not just for financial reasons, but just because I miss the smell of the rigs, the burning fumes, the sweaty men, and the salty sea air. It looks like I'll be on a mini-job next week, but only for a few days. Still no big jobs imminent.
For today, I'm going to Durham in a couple of hours, to reunite with the divine Maebh, for whom adjectives cannot ever adequately describe her radiance, and whom I've not seen in over two and half years, despite many broken promises to visit her. But finally I've made the time. The train leaves at 1.21pm today. I won't be late (and it better not be).
Sunday, 17 August 2008
Small Party
Look at my new camera. What do you think?
In fact, it's not mine, but was left in my flat on Friday, after somewhat of a mangling party. I think it may be the neighour's, Yates's, but I've decided to keep it until he claims it, and maybe sell it on Ebay. Looking through his photos, it's rather heartening to see he's almost as bad as I with regards to this alleged art, but his collection was redeemed by a photo of me, on the roof.
Friday's party was a rather sprawling and unplanned affair, that left me almost entirely physically disabled on Saturday. It started off with a few civilised drinks with my sister and her friends, but ended up with a motley crew of colleagues, neighbours and strangers on my roof at 7am. The main instigators of it all - for I was blameless - were Burness (a perennial bad influence), my PA and the neighbour Yates, who seemed to drag half a clubful of people back to the flat at 3am. It was all very enjoyable, though I was very glad I've opted for floorboards only in my flat, for the flat was awash with spilt drink. My PA very gallantly cleaned everything up the next day too, as I slinked off to Green's empty flat to hide, and to watch the football and Olympics.
As all this may suggest, I'm not in Norway and still lounging about at home. The job in Norway was cancelled this week, and nothing else seems immediately imminent. It's almost six weeks at home now - a record, I think. With all my flats finished and rented, I find I don't have much pressing business to do, and have become incredibly lazy, so I really intend to make better use of my time this week. I may even pop into the office - yes, it's got that desperate. I won't actually do anything there except drink coffee and pester people, but I should remind everyone of my continued existence, and see what jobs are coming up.
And that's it.
In fact, it's not mine, but was left in my flat on Friday, after somewhat of a mangling party. I think it may be the neighour's, Yates's, but I've decided to keep it until he claims it, and maybe sell it on Ebay. Looking through his photos, it's rather heartening to see he's almost as bad as I with regards to this alleged art, but his collection was redeemed by a photo of me, on the roof.
Friday's party was a rather sprawling and unplanned affair, that left me almost entirely physically disabled on Saturday. It started off with a few civilised drinks with my sister and her friends, but ended up with a motley crew of colleagues, neighbours and strangers on my roof at 7am. The main instigators of it all - for I was blameless - were Burness (a perennial bad influence), my PA and the neighbour Yates, who seemed to drag half a clubful of people back to the flat at 3am. It was all very enjoyable, though I was very glad I've opted for floorboards only in my flat, for the flat was awash with spilt drink. My PA very gallantly cleaned everything up the next day too, as I slinked off to Green's empty flat to hide, and to watch the football and Olympics.
As all this may suggest, I'm not in Norway and still lounging about at home. The job in Norway was cancelled this week, and nothing else seems immediately imminent. It's almost six weeks at home now - a record, I think. With all my flats finished and rented, I find I don't have much pressing business to do, and have become incredibly lazy, so I really intend to make better use of my time this week. I may even pop into the office - yes, it's got that desperate. I won't actually do anything there except drink coffee and pester people, but I should remind everyone of my continued existence, and see what jobs are coming up.
And that's it.
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Becky's Wedding
I sit here, in the little alcove of my exquisitely furnished living room, DJing to a near-professional level (despite lack of headphones), drinking dodgy Polish beer. My PA is studiously catching up with three years of a neglected PhD in the kitchen, dropping her hard work only to fetch me another drink, which I communicate to her by text message. Outside, the light dims, but the screeches of the universally-despised seagulls remain bright and loud, with the higher pitches of the pathetic baby seagull also registering: oh, how I wish for a national cull. Perhaps a little later, I'll tire of my "dex-skillz" and progress to the snooker room, and knock around my shiny new snooker balls. Until finally, when the beer has run out and I decide against the cognac, I'll stumble up the dangerous stairway to my attic haven and fall into a delicious sleep in my massive, extremely accommodating bed. And throughout all of this, I will make no mistake: this is Aberdeen, and not Norway.
I was supposed to be in Norway by now; at least, I would be in some parallel universe where oil schedules meant something. Fortunately they don't, and on Friday morning, as I emerged from deep sleep into a world of hangover ruin, I received a phonecall with the very welcome news that Saturday's voyage to Norway had been postponed.
That news ultimately made for a far more enjoyable Friday evening, though it barely made a blip on the vile misery that Friday morning turned out to be. I found myself in a country house near Birmingham, then in a dining room with a bride, a groom and their family and friends, and then in a small car with a six hour drive ahead. The most ghastly of the misery - a deep nausea receiving little sympathy from the teetotal honey, Roxana - passed after the first couple of hours, mercifully, but I apologise to anyone who happened to venture into a service station toilet between Birmingham and Carlisle anytime after 10am that morning.
It was all worth it though, because the Thursday that caused the damage was terrific. I'd been invited down to see an old friend, Becky, get married. Becky was an integral part of "back in the day", when I lived in a castle and didn't sleep, only pass out. She wasn't in the last bit a good influence, instead preferring to phone at the moment I was about to drive home, and persuade me to venture to some seedy nightclub. She wisely jumped ship just before the whole scene dissolved into the darkest of mania, but to hear of her getting married, presumably forever, was still quite a surprise. This was someone from a group of people for whom commitment meant remembering to be at the pub for 10pm. The sobering influence on her life is a man, and very charming and pleasant he turned out to be, with the impressive name of "Hereward", an old friend from before "back in the day", who has nursed Becky into a healthier world and convinced her to be a dutiful wife.
I arrived into Birmingham very late on Wednesday, so late in fact it was actually Thursday, the wedding day. After meeting Rox, the driver, in Edinburgh, traffic and then weather had been horrendous, and we'd slipped way behind schedule; nonetheless, Becky was happy to direct us as we entered the unknown and deeply murky world of Birmingham, and greet us as we finally found her house. I stayed with a couple of her friends, and survived a whole night of being stared at by their unsettled cat. I won the contest, and it missed its tray when crapping, so buoyed by this victory I was in good form going into the wedding.
I didn't know anyone there except for the aforementioned Rox and Becky, but this turned out not to really matter, because it was a fairly small wedding (about 60 people) and a very friendly one, where everyone got on. Of course, the steady drinking from 2.30pm didn't hurt, and the fact that the country house hosting the wedding was also the hotel for everyone.
Anyway, I was going to write more, but my PA has just poured me a White Russian, and I kind of feel like venturing on to the snooker room, where the activities will demand more of my attention rather than my DJ exertions. So I will briefly reiterate that the wedding was really enjoyable, praise the 7-year-old boy who stole the dancefloor, express concern as to the drinkability of a whisky and Amaretto, and look forward to the next drinks I buy being about £15 a pint in Norway.
I was supposed to be in Norway by now; at least, I would be in some parallel universe where oil schedules meant something. Fortunately they don't, and on Friday morning, as I emerged from deep sleep into a world of hangover ruin, I received a phonecall with the very welcome news that Saturday's voyage to Norway had been postponed.
That news ultimately made for a far more enjoyable Friday evening, though it barely made a blip on the vile misery that Friday morning turned out to be. I found myself in a country house near Birmingham, then in a dining room with a bride, a groom and their family and friends, and then in a small car with a six hour drive ahead. The most ghastly of the misery - a deep nausea receiving little sympathy from the teetotal honey, Roxana - passed after the first couple of hours, mercifully, but I apologise to anyone who happened to venture into a service station toilet between Birmingham and Carlisle anytime after 10am that morning.
It was all worth it though, because the Thursday that caused the damage was terrific. I'd been invited down to see an old friend, Becky, get married. Becky was an integral part of "back in the day", when I lived in a castle and didn't sleep, only pass out. She wasn't in the last bit a good influence, instead preferring to phone at the moment I was about to drive home, and persuade me to venture to some seedy nightclub. She wisely jumped ship just before the whole scene dissolved into the darkest of mania, but to hear of her getting married, presumably forever, was still quite a surprise. This was someone from a group of people for whom commitment meant remembering to be at the pub for 10pm. The sobering influence on her life is a man, and very charming and pleasant he turned out to be, with the impressive name of "Hereward", an old friend from before "back in the day", who has nursed Becky into a healthier world and convinced her to be a dutiful wife.
I arrived into Birmingham very late on Wednesday, so late in fact it was actually Thursday, the wedding day. After meeting Rox, the driver, in Edinburgh, traffic and then weather had been horrendous, and we'd slipped way behind schedule; nonetheless, Becky was happy to direct us as we entered the unknown and deeply murky world of Birmingham, and greet us as we finally found her house. I stayed with a couple of her friends, and survived a whole night of being stared at by their unsettled cat. I won the contest, and it missed its tray when crapping, so buoyed by this victory I was in good form going into the wedding.
I didn't know anyone there except for the aforementioned Rox and Becky, but this turned out not to really matter, because it was a fairly small wedding (about 60 people) and a very friendly one, where everyone got on. Of course, the steady drinking from 2.30pm didn't hurt, and the fact that the country house hosting the wedding was also the hotel for everyone.
Anyway, I was going to write more, but my PA has just poured me a White Russian, and I kind of feel like venturing on to the snooker room, where the activities will demand more of my attention rather than my DJ exertions. So I will briefly reiterate that the wedding was really enjoyable, praise the 7-year-old boy who stole the dancefloor, express concern as to the drinkability of a whisky and Amaretto, and look forward to the next drinks I buy being about £15 a pint in Norway.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Rooftop
I was sipping a cold beer and listening to a splendid DJ mix by Frenchman Ivan Smagghe yesterday afternoon when there was a knocking on my door. As I was very busy playing snooker I asked my PA to answer it. It was the neighbours. Would we like to join them on the roof for a barbecue? Well, why not?
It turns out, it's rather nice up there.
Later on, I went for some drinks with Kitchen Mark, French Claire and The Swish Fish. I got monstrously drunk and ended up DJing again - I was so drunk I thought I was doing it well. Yates, our neighbour, also visited, and promptly passed out on my sofa.
This morning, I have found an empty bottle of whisky and an empty bottle of gin. I'm feeling a little sub-par I must admit.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Varwell's Mullet
Those of you familiar with my good friend and former travelling colleague, Varwell, may be aware of his somewhat unconventional mullet world tour. This, in a nutshell, is Varwell's single-minded quest to visit every place in the world with the word "mullet" in it. Foreign translations also count, apparently.
Varwell has been doing this "hair-brained" (to quote every single piece of journalism so far published about him) mission for some years now, and is now impervious to people asking him quite why he's pursuing this goal. His response to those who ask him "have you nothing better to do?" is far more reasoned than my own, which would just be to stick my fingers up at them. The sort of people who ask this question are the sort of unimaginative plebs who have lost their souls to television, and can't conceive of spare time being used elsewise. Why climb a mountain, why send a telescope into space, why build an elaborate train track in your attic: because we can. I'll vote for active endeavour any day over passive vegetation. And although I think Varwell's mullet mission is ridiculous, I think it's ridiculous in the most sincerely wonderful way.
That Varwell has attracted a degree of media attention for this is not altogether surprising; news needs its "And finally..." stories. But many seem just a little disappointed that despite Varwell's great enthusiasm for the mullet hairstyle (perhaps a growing admiration for the fish too), he doesn't sport one himself.
Not any more...
You see, many years back, when we had just met, and I was some callow beardless youth and Varwell was a political monomaniac, Varwell sported a far less trim hairstyle than today. Tangled, long and stringy wouldn't be unfair descriptions, but fierce debate has raged for years now as to quite what form the "long" took. Varwell will insist his hair just simply wasn't cut often, but I - and many others - believe something quite different: Varwell had a mullet.
And just a couple of days ago, I stumbled upon the photo I knew existed, the infamous "Varwell mullet" photo. Taken in either 1996 or 1997, I don't know if he's ever seen this picture, though he has always strenuously denied the accuracy of the contents.
And, well, I think it's best you see for yourself.
(click on the picture for a closer look)
To the left you have a very cherubic looking Joe Guyan, then we have Imray, standing tallest is Varwell himself, then it's someone who apparently was once me, then it's Green , and at the bottom, looking incredibly smarmy, is the reclusive insomniac Robert Graham, who I'm told is still alive to this day. It's hard to believe none of us had girlfriends back then, isn't it? But let's focus on Varwell.
Now, I know exactly what he will say - "it was just long hair" - but is it really? Just look, at the front, hanging just below his eyebrows, at the back, touching his shoulders. Indeed, clearly shorter at the front than at the back: hallmarks of a mullet. The truth is, that underlying this entire epic quest, is the deep-seated, perhaps subconscious, dark truth that Varwell himself used to sport a mullet, and this entire trip is to exorcise these demons of the past.
It is believed that other, even more convincing, photos of this period may exist.
I think little more needs to be said. Varwell, I await your response.
Varwell has been doing this "hair-brained" (to quote every single piece of journalism so far published about him) mission for some years now, and is now impervious to people asking him quite why he's pursuing this goal. His response to those who ask him "have you nothing better to do?" is far more reasoned than my own, which would just be to stick my fingers up at them. The sort of people who ask this question are the sort of unimaginative plebs who have lost their souls to television, and can't conceive of spare time being used elsewise. Why climb a mountain, why send a telescope into space, why build an elaborate train track in your attic: because we can. I'll vote for active endeavour any day over passive vegetation. And although I think Varwell's mullet mission is ridiculous, I think it's ridiculous in the most sincerely wonderful way.
That Varwell has attracted a degree of media attention for this is not altogether surprising; news needs its "And finally..." stories. But many seem just a little disappointed that despite Varwell's great enthusiasm for the mullet hairstyle (perhaps a growing admiration for the fish too), he doesn't sport one himself.
Not any more...
You see, many years back, when we had just met, and I was some callow beardless youth and Varwell was a political monomaniac, Varwell sported a far less trim hairstyle than today. Tangled, long and stringy wouldn't be unfair descriptions, but fierce debate has raged for years now as to quite what form the "long" took. Varwell will insist his hair just simply wasn't cut often, but I - and many others - believe something quite different: Varwell had a mullet.
And just a couple of days ago, I stumbled upon the photo I knew existed, the infamous "Varwell mullet" photo. Taken in either 1996 or 1997, I don't know if he's ever seen this picture, though he has always strenuously denied the accuracy of the contents.
And, well, I think it's best you see for yourself.
(click on the picture for a closer look)To the left you have a very cherubic looking Joe Guyan, then we have Imray, standing tallest is Varwell himself, then it's someone who apparently was once me, then it's Green , and at the bottom, looking incredibly smarmy, is the reclusive insomniac Robert Graham, who I'm told is still alive to this day. It's hard to believe none of us had girlfriends back then, isn't it? But let's focus on Varwell.
Now, I know exactly what he will say - "it was just long hair" - but is it really? Just look, at the front, hanging just below his eyebrows, at the back, touching his shoulders. Indeed, clearly shorter at the front than at the back: hallmarks of a mullet. The truth is, that underlying this entire epic quest, is the deep-seated, perhaps subconscious, dark truth that Varwell himself used to sport a mullet, and this entire trip is to exorcise these demons of the past.
It is believed that other, even more convincing, photos of this period may exist.
I think little more needs to be said. Varwell, I await your response.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Catching Up
It's been almost three weeks since my feet touched the warm ground of Aberdeen, and the nightmares of the North Sea, Equatorial Guinea and Brazil could be put behind me, and I could envelope myself in the arms of loved ones. In that time, I've been catching up with friends, family, my properties and life in general, though mostly on the beer missed while offshore. I could write an incredibly erudite entry, weaving deftly among topics, about all the events and happenstances that have occurred in this mega-jamboree of hometime - but as I can't be bothered including photos, I know nobody would read it. So instead, I'm returning to the old favourite - category headings in bold. This will, at least, make it easier to skim.
My New Flat
I acquired my new flat at the very end of May, but being hustled off to the North Sea prevented me having it ready to rent. Fortunately, it needed very little done and it is now on the market, and I'm confident will be fully out of my hands soon. The credit crunch - a necessity now the media are getting bored of terrorists - plays into my hands, as it means people are more likely to rent than buy, so the rental market continues to be extremely buoyant in Aberdeen. This means my tenants can hardly refuse when I insist on putting giant portraits of myself in every room.
Leonard Cohen
I was somewhat upset when I missed Cohen play in Dublin by a day, because of North Sea shenanigans, and spent some time in a girly huff. But recompense was made, and earlier planning paid off. You see, I'd bought tickets to two different shows, knowing that I should at least get lucky with one, and so two weeks ago, on the 16th, I saw Cohen play Edinburgh - and it was the best gig I've ever been to.
My old friend, and one-time very bad influence, Emily came along with me, and we warmed up with some drinks and a meal. We discussed how civilised we have become these days, and reflected on many fun evenings of yore, when we would soak ourselves in red wine, cross-dress and behave in a manner that now shames us. But we now both cut fine figures of professionals, and recognise that all the fun and laughter is behind us, with only a steady decline into old age ahead. Hence a Cohen concert seemed quite appropriate.
In fact, despite Cohen's reputation as a gloom-peddlar, he's nothing of the sort, as anyone in attendance, or with knowledge of his music, would testify. There's some bitter reflection, there's some melancholy, there's some scathing damnation, but there's a lot of wit, and a very warm manner. With no warm-up act necessary, 73-year-old Leonard sung for two-and-a-half hours, and I have never been so enthralled at a gig before.
Even better, by chance internet meanderings, I discovered he's added new dates to his tour, and some very lucky timing meant I have secured a ticket for the Millennium Dome in London, in the primary A block closest to the stage. He'll be close enough to pelt with paper aeroplanes. It's in November, and I've already got the time off due to my 30th and a wedding.
Sick
On my first five days home, I was really quite sick. A combination of desperate insomnia, exhaustion and some kind of virus I think, but it was the sickest I've been in years. My PA wasn't even at hand to bodywash me.
My PA
Yes, I've hardly seen my PA since I got back. She's supposed to be waiting hand and foot for me, but she took a long weekend at T-in-the-Park, getting wasted, then a long weekend at a London dance festival, getting wasted, and for the last week she's been in Edinburgh because her step-grandfather died. In the time she's been around though, she's been very useful, as she's washed all my clothes. But she needs to start cooking more, and dusting and stuff. Or at least bring pretty friends round in the evening.
My PA's grandfather
His name was J. T. Mckintosh, or at least his pen-name was. He wrote about twenty science fiction novels in the 50s and 60s, and editor of the Press & Journal in the 80s. My PA described him as "cantankerous". I read one of his books, and really enjoyed it, but I'm not sure how well it would wash with modern feminism.
Varwell turns 30
Varwell turned 30 last week, and seemed morose in his lamentations about aging. I figure there's no need to worry as long as you still have your hair.
On the topic of Varwell and hair, I have now found the photo - taken 12 years ago - that proves Varwell once had a mullet, and I will be posting it up soon.
My sister
My sister has just a week left before she walks away from doctorhood and becomes a drunken waster for a year or more. My mother blames me. As a result of this, I have been helping her get her flat ready to rent, and have recarpeted it all as well as chucking out tons of rubbish. She had her official leaving night on Saturday, which culminated in an after-party at my flat, the first such party it has hosted. It went very well. My flat is now geared up for parties, with decks in the living room and a snooker table in the snooker room, as well as a nice, big, open kitchen. It was my first ever public DJing performance - I was bad, but not half as bad as Justin.
Finished
Since finishing my fifth flat, and sorting out my sister's, I am now in the joyous position of being finished. For the first time in over two years, my onshore time isn't a frantic race against the clock to redecorate, renovate or refurbish. For two years, when I've not beeen working, I've been working - but now it's all over. I almost don't know what to do with myself. There's still bits and bobs with paperwork, the flat I'm living in and lots of small personal projects, but essentially my days are now clear.
You won't be surprised to hear that I yesterday had to write a note to myself not to start drinking in the afternoon.
Hello Guys At Work!
Two or more years ago, during my time in Korea, my good friend Matt - the cheesily handsome Kiwi, that made all girls swoon - discovered my Korean blog. This was terrible news, as I'd been horribly indiscreet, and named him and others by name. Oh dear. It was a very regrettable episode. Thus, when starting this blog, I have been meticulous in keeping out all mention of my company and colleagues by actual name. But still, word has leaked out, and at least a few of my colleagues are aware of this blog's existence. So, hello.
Fortunately, I've not said anything too incriminating, and haven't mentioned my rampant and promuscious homosexuality, or the fact I'm regularly supplying rival companies reams of confidential information. And fortunately, I know the guys at work will just be looking at the pretty pictures, rather than reading the Queen's English, so they won't have noticed my cryptic messages of hate.
Becky's Wedding
The reason I've been off for a few weeks is fortuitous timing and my official week's holiday starting on Saturday. This was taken for my old friend Becky, who gets married next Thursday, in Birmingham of all places. I never thought I'd take a holiday to go to Birmingham, but life throws all sorts of strange stuff at you.
Photo
To reward those who have read this far, I have included a photo. This was taken in Brazil, offshore, and is of a Brazilian's underpants. The Brazilians have a strong predeliction for leaving their underpants hanging conspciously on all available spaces.
My New Flat
I acquired my new flat at the very end of May, but being hustled off to the North Sea prevented me having it ready to rent. Fortunately, it needed very little done and it is now on the market, and I'm confident will be fully out of my hands soon. The credit crunch - a necessity now the media are getting bored of terrorists - plays into my hands, as it means people are more likely to rent than buy, so the rental market continues to be extremely buoyant in Aberdeen. This means my tenants can hardly refuse when I insist on putting giant portraits of myself in every room.
Leonard Cohen
I was somewhat upset when I missed Cohen play in Dublin by a day, because of North Sea shenanigans, and spent some time in a girly huff. But recompense was made, and earlier planning paid off. You see, I'd bought tickets to two different shows, knowing that I should at least get lucky with one, and so two weeks ago, on the 16th, I saw Cohen play Edinburgh - and it was the best gig I've ever been to.
My old friend, and one-time very bad influence, Emily came along with me, and we warmed up with some drinks and a meal. We discussed how civilised we have become these days, and reflected on many fun evenings of yore, when we would soak ourselves in red wine, cross-dress and behave in a manner that now shames us. But we now both cut fine figures of professionals, and recognise that all the fun and laughter is behind us, with only a steady decline into old age ahead. Hence a Cohen concert seemed quite appropriate.
In fact, despite Cohen's reputation as a gloom-peddlar, he's nothing of the sort, as anyone in attendance, or with knowledge of his music, would testify. There's some bitter reflection, there's some melancholy, there's some scathing damnation, but there's a lot of wit, and a very warm manner. With no warm-up act necessary, 73-year-old Leonard sung for two-and-a-half hours, and I have never been so enthralled at a gig before.
Even better, by chance internet meanderings, I discovered he's added new dates to his tour, and some very lucky timing meant I have secured a ticket for the Millennium Dome in London, in the primary A block closest to the stage. He'll be close enough to pelt with paper aeroplanes. It's in November, and I've already got the time off due to my 30th and a wedding.
Sick
On my first five days home, I was really quite sick. A combination of desperate insomnia, exhaustion and some kind of virus I think, but it was the sickest I've been in years. My PA wasn't even at hand to bodywash me.
My PA
Yes, I've hardly seen my PA since I got back. She's supposed to be waiting hand and foot for me, but she took a long weekend at T-in-the-Park, getting wasted, then a long weekend at a London dance festival, getting wasted, and for the last week she's been in Edinburgh because her step-grandfather died. In the time she's been around though, she's been very useful, as she's washed all my clothes. But she needs to start cooking more, and dusting and stuff. Or at least bring pretty friends round in the evening.
My PA's grandfather
His name was J. T. Mckintosh, or at least his pen-name was. He wrote about twenty science fiction novels in the 50s and 60s, and editor of the Press & Journal in the 80s. My PA described him as "cantankerous". I read one of his books, and really enjoyed it, but I'm not sure how well it would wash with modern feminism.
Varwell turns 30
Varwell turned 30 last week, and seemed morose in his lamentations about aging. I figure there's no need to worry as long as you still have your hair.
On the topic of Varwell and hair, I have now found the photo - taken 12 years ago - that proves Varwell once had a mullet, and I will be posting it up soon.
My sister
My sister has just a week left before she walks away from doctorhood and becomes a drunken waster for a year or more. My mother blames me. As a result of this, I have been helping her get her flat ready to rent, and have recarpeted it all as well as chucking out tons of rubbish. She had her official leaving night on Saturday, which culminated in an after-party at my flat, the first such party it has hosted. It went very well. My flat is now geared up for parties, with decks in the living room and a snooker table in the snooker room, as well as a nice, big, open kitchen. It was my first ever public DJing performance - I was bad, but not half as bad as Justin.
Finished
Since finishing my fifth flat, and sorting out my sister's, I am now in the joyous position of being finished. For the first time in over two years, my onshore time isn't a frantic race against the clock to redecorate, renovate or refurbish. For two years, when I've not beeen working, I've been working - but now it's all over. I almost don't know what to do with myself. There's still bits and bobs with paperwork, the flat I'm living in and lots of small personal projects, but essentially my days are now clear.
You won't be surprised to hear that I yesterday had to write a note to myself not to start drinking in the afternoon.
Hello Guys At Work!
Two or more years ago, during my time in Korea, my good friend Matt - the cheesily handsome Kiwi, that made all girls swoon - discovered my Korean blog. This was terrible news, as I'd been horribly indiscreet, and named him and others by name. Oh dear. It was a very regrettable episode. Thus, when starting this blog, I have been meticulous in keeping out all mention of my company and colleagues by actual name. But still, word has leaked out, and at least a few of my colleagues are aware of this blog's existence. So, hello.
Fortunately, I've not said anything too incriminating, and haven't mentioned my rampant and promuscious homosexuality, or the fact I'm regularly supplying rival companies reams of confidential information. And fortunately, I know the guys at work will just be looking at the pretty pictures, rather than reading the Queen's English, so they won't have noticed my cryptic messages of hate.
Becky's Wedding
The reason I've been off for a few weeks is fortuitous timing and my official week's holiday starting on Saturday. This was taken for my old friend Becky, who gets married next Thursday, in Birmingham of all places. I never thought I'd take a holiday to go to Birmingham, but life throws all sorts of strange stuff at you.
Photo
To reward those who have read this far, I have included a photo. This was taken in Brazil, offshore, and is of a Brazilian's underpants. The Brazilians have a strong predeliction for leaving their underpants hanging conspciously on all available spaces.
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