With my property empire running smoothly and not requiring daily input, I have turned my muscular financial bulk to the world of stocks and shares. As you may have noticed, those of you who closely follow the news, the entire world has caved in on itself upon realising all the money we had was actually just pretend. Thus, my helping hand was required, and from my network of savings I have pumped money into the London Stock Exchange, to the tune of about £100, about six weeks ago. This is how I have progressed:
My first investment was in "Caspian Holdings PLC". My reasoning for this investment, of £25, was somewhat obscure, based upon a stocks and shares TV programme I used to watch about ten years ago called "Show Me The Money". In this lunchtime programme, company overlords would come on and try and "sell" their company to teams of people buying pretend shares, with the knock-on effect that loads of city people on their lunchbreak would promptly buy their shares for real and substantially boost the value of the company by the end of the half hour show. One such company, a small one, was called Atlantic Caspian, which had something to do with oil, and for some reason it remained in my head. I recall the shares being worth about 15p each. Well, now this company has turned into Caspian Holdings PLC and the 15p shares were a bargain 1/2p. What better time to invest? I bought a bumper 4741 shares. My £25 is now worth £21.33, but it should be noted that as this was my first investment online I mistakenly bought immediately rather than the cost-effective delayed way, which cost me £8.50 rather than £1.50, thus my investment of £25 was only £16.50, and thus my loss is actually a profit. I feel I am very quickly coming to grips with how money actually works in the modern world.
My second investment was something called "NCC Group Plc". I have no idea who they are or what they do; my reason for purchase was because NCC are my own initials. And they've done me proud. My 16 shares, costing me £48.91, are now worth £52.64. If I had invested £489,100, I would have made £37,300. Not bad for six weeks work.
Finally, my third investment was in Tullow Oil PLC. I have no idea why I invested in them, as I've never been on a job for them, and have no insider information either. This lack of nous might be why my two shares costing £18 are now worth just £15.72. I think this may have been an unwise investment, but intend to stick it out until I'm back in profit.
It's a step up, I think, from the online betting I did last summer, while on a job. Here I lost £50 on one bet, when the Polish netball team came back from 2-0 down to beat the Brazilian netball team 3-2! Who could have predicted that? I quit in anger, as it demolished all my good work betting on the darts, and learnt a sage lesson.
Anyway, that's all. In other news... nothing. I wake to the same grey surroundings daily, ignore the dull eyes of the same dour faces in the corridors, sit in the same seat in the same grey unit for 12 hours, and relish the oblivion of sleep, my only escape. Every day is a day less of my youth, a day closer to the inevitable oblivion to which there is no awakening. I have seen the future, and it is here, for evermore, on this featurelessly bleak Groundhog Day rig.
Bye for now!
Monday, 20 April 2009
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Saturday, 4 April 2009
From A to Z
I arrived, wedged at the back corner of a planeful of boisterous Azeri 13-year-olds who applauded the landing, in Azerbaijan's capital, Baku, last Tuesday. I remained there for approximately 12 hours before being choppered into the Caspian Sea, or more precisely, a semi-submersible enigmatically named “Istiglal.” Thus, after almost two weeks, I can tell you a lot about this small metal space, and rather less about the nation of Azerbaijan.
What I do know is based on mere hearsay and colleagues' tales, plus a night-time taxi drive to my hotel, through the city from the airport. Despite being a Muslim country, the locals love their booze and channel 5 of the TV is dedicated to porn: I think they may have strayed from the Koran. I approve heartily of all this, even if the porn wasn't very good. What glimpses of the city I grabbed seemed to have more charm than recent expeditions, and unlike slums like Luanda or the blocky sprawl of Johannesburg (to be fair, I didn't get a proper look), there seemed a sense of style and history. Architecturally inspired by Islam, with the more recent Soviet monster looming high. But the place appeared distinct – and that is a vital quality in any good city. A recent post by Green perfectly expresses this and what constitutes the “soul” of a city, so I will direct you there for his excellently chosen words rather than regurgitate them here.
Azerbaijan is also noted for being the only country in the world to leap from the first letter of the alphabet to the last – not a bad effort for a small nation (though Zambia has a good shot, but gets it the wrong way round). I suppose Brazil gives it a shot too, but takes a few practice letters to get going. It's the fourth country now I've been to containing the letter “z”, and I can now proudly boast that I've met people from six different ex-Soviet nations. Well done. It's also country no. 40 for me, a milestone I've celebrated by vast consumption of cake.
In years to come, when I regale my offshore experiences in excruciating detail to my tiny and very weary grandchildren, my overriding memories of “Istiglal”, apart from not being able to say it, will be of cake. I shall tell little “Murphy”, “Geraldine” and “Shirley-Claire” (or whatever my stupid kids will call them) about the two different varieties of cake that dominated my first week, and the excitement that exploded when a third, colourful, cake appeared. My favourite cake is still the understated brown cake with a light beige icing – but gosh, isn't that sponge moist. It goes particularly well if some of the nuts from cake 2 have rubbed off on it. Cake 2 is a lot flatter and denser, and one is enough for any shift. The third cake, that caused such ripples of wonder, is adorned with green icing and a purple-icing flower. For me, the icing was a little disappointing, though the hefty wedges of light sponge never fail to satisfy.
Unfortunately, as I will then say in a low tone to my grandchildren, their restlessness only tempered by the vast inheritance they stand to one day gain, the rig is also likely to have developed a reputation in my memory for safety pedanticness. Health and safety on a rig is certainly a vital thing, of that I will not argue, but when extended way beyond useful causes, it just becomes a tool for pettiness. It has ended up with all the rig personnel looking for any excuse to catch you out on some utterly minor point. The worst yet was today, being “caught out” for not walking in the centre of a walkway outside. What? It all stems from the obsessive desire from everyone on the rig to write at least one “STOP” card (cards noting good or bad safety behaviour observed) every day. The problem is, when our lead engineer wrote a very sensible card noting some slightly off standards from a rig supervisor, the head of the rig – the OIM – called him up and basically gave him a bollocking for it, making him enemies of two rig supervisors at the same time. Hence, we have learnt to only write good cards. Well, the others have. I've only ever written two cards in my entire life – I'm just really, really not a fan of this kind of mindless bureaucracy - and so far haven't observed any extreme behaviour here, so don't look like I'll be adding to that quite yet. I suppose I could compliment the cakes.
It's not all been cakes and safety though. There's been plenty of assembling of tools, programming, downloading, disassembling, argonning, pressure testing, function testing, playing computer games, and all kinds of stuff that is better suited to official reports than regaling to my beloved audience here. My beloved grandchildren may not get off so lucky though. Currently, we're in the midst of delays, but these may be getting resolved soon, and the threat of work later in this shift looms. In truth, this is quite a big job, but a four-man team and a decent amount of time have made it very manageable.
So from A to Z, Aberdeen to Azerbaijan, a faux-Christian nation to a faux-Muslim nation, Scottish-style dourness to dourness in the way only ex-Soviets can manage, things are steady, if not exactly dramatic. Just another rig, to be honest. But with decent cakes.
What I do know is based on mere hearsay and colleagues' tales, plus a night-time taxi drive to my hotel, through the city from the airport. Despite being a Muslim country, the locals love their booze and channel 5 of the TV is dedicated to porn: I think they may have strayed from the Koran. I approve heartily of all this, even if the porn wasn't very good. What glimpses of the city I grabbed seemed to have more charm than recent expeditions, and unlike slums like Luanda or the blocky sprawl of Johannesburg (to be fair, I didn't get a proper look), there seemed a sense of style and history. Architecturally inspired by Islam, with the more recent Soviet monster looming high. But the place appeared distinct – and that is a vital quality in any good city. A recent post by Green perfectly expresses this and what constitutes the “soul” of a city, so I will direct you there for his excellently chosen words rather than regurgitate them here.
Azerbaijan is also noted for being the only country in the world to leap from the first letter of the alphabet to the last – not a bad effort for a small nation (though Zambia has a good shot, but gets it the wrong way round). I suppose Brazil gives it a shot too, but takes a few practice letters to get going. It's the fourth country now I've been to containing the letter “z”, and I can now proudly boast that I've met people from six different ex-Soviet nations. Well done. It's also country no. 40 for me, a milestone I've celebrated by vast consumption of cake.
In years to come, when I regale my offshore experiences in excruciating detail to my tiny and very weary grandchildren, my overriding memories of “Istiglal”, apart from not being able to say it, will be of cake. I shall tell little “Murphy”, “Geraldine” and “Shirley-Claire” (or whatever my stupid kids will call them) about the two different varieties of cake that dominated my first week, and the excitement that exploded when a third, colourful, cake appeared. My favourite cake is still the understated brown cake with a light beige icing – but gosh, isn't that sponge moist. It goes particularly well if some of the nuts from cake 2 have rubbed off on it. Cake 2 is a lot flatter and denser, and one is enough for any shift. The third cake, that caused such ripples of wonder, is adorned with green icing and a purple-icing flower. For me, the icing was a little disappointing, though the hefty wedges of light sponge never fail to satisfy.
Unfortunately, as I will then say in a low tone to my grandchildren, their restlessness only tempered by the vast inheritance they stand to one day gain, the rig is also likely to have developed a reputation in my memory for safety pedanticness. Health and safety on a rig is certainly a vital thing, of that I will not argue, but when extended way beyond useful causes, it just becomes a tool for pettiness. It has ended up with all the rig personnel looking for any excuse to catch you out on some utterly minor point. The worst yet was today, being “caught out” for not walking in the centre of a walkway outside. What? It all stems from the obsessive desire from everyone on the rig to write at least one “STOP” card (cards noting good or bad safety behaviour observed) every day. The problem is, when our lead engineer wrote a very sensible card noting some slightly off standards from a rig supervisor, the head of the rig – the OIM – called him up and basically gave him a bollocking for it, making him enemies of two rig supervisors at the same time. Hence, we have learnt to only write good cards. Well, the others have. I've only ever written two cards in my entire life – I'm just really, really not a fan of this kind of mindless bureaucracy - and so far haven't observed any extreme behaviour here, so don't look like I'll be adding to that quite yet. I suppose I could compliment the cakes.
It's not all been cakes and safety though. There's been plenty of assembling of tools, programming, downloading, disassembling, argonning, pressure testing, function testing, playing computer games, and all kinds of stuff that is better suited to official reports than regaling to my beloved audience here. My beloved grandchildren may not get off so lucky though. Currently, we're in the midst of delays, but these may be getting resolved soon, and the threat of work later in this shift looms. In truth, this is quite a big job, but a four-man team and a decent amount of time have made it very manageable.
So from A to Z, Aberdeen to Azerbaijan, a faux-Christian nation to a faux-Muslim nation, Scottish-style dourness to dourness in the way only ex-Soviets can manage, things are steady, if not exactly dramatic. Just another rig, to be honest. But with decent cakes.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Bonus Day
Today has been a bonus day.
With my work, I am resigned for days to sometimes disappear. A classic example being on a job in Equatorial Guinea a couple of years back: after having spent many hours feeding a cable into a hole, it transpired that the test engineer - a backwards bumpkin called "Mallett" single-handedly responsible for the imposition of the accursed 11pm onshore curfew - had made a basic error of calculation, which meant we would have to spend many hours pulling the cable back out of the hole before putting it back in again. Running cable in and out of a hole for hours and hours, let me tell you, is not fun. Not at all. And Mallett's maths mistake resigned me and the rest of the crew on the job to another 24 hours of it. When this stupid, stupid, stupid mistake and its consequences were realised, I turned to Mr Calm, who was the job leader, and said, "I suppose the way to think about all this is that it's one more day on this rig, and therefore in a lifetime of finite duration, one less day of our lives to actually live." Mr Calm just nodded, slowly and quietly. "One less day," he said.
And such things often happen. Days disappear. Why, I remember being just 27 years old and starting in the glorious offshore world. What young and fresh days these were. Now I'm 30, life is whizzing past me, and I find myself jaded, and contorted with bitterness. My eager face has long since been mangled into a dour scowl. The days disappear, one by one, a clock ticking ever louder and ever closer to its final tock.
But sometimes, though it may be a trick of the mind, a bonus day comes along. Today was such. On Saturday, after I'd meandered down to a nearby antiques shop and bought a lovely rolltop antique desk, a lovely antique cutlery set, a lovely antique box, and a lovely antique book, I got a phonecall - the lovely sound of my boss. Guess what, he said, your freedom is ending and soon you will be stuck on a metal hell surrounded by angry men. I paraphrase, but that's the gist.
So, I was supposed to be going to Azerbaijan today, and thus I spent Sunday getting prepared. Packing takes me about 20 minutes, and so the rest of my day was spent indulging in my "last day" routine. This is a routine that has been developing in the last year, as I prepare myself for going away again. It involves drinking a bottle of port, eating some very strong cheese, often smoking a pipe or cigar, and pacing about and ranting. These are all some of my favourite hobbies. But then, midway into the bottle of port, a phonecall interrupted my Sunday evening. Because Azerbaijan is on a two week national holiday (I fully endore this concept) something or other couldn't happen and so something else had to be done (I'd drunk half a bottle of port so wasn't retaining the details here). Thus, my flight was delayed from 6.30am on Monday to 9.55am on Tuesday. Hurray!
So today has been a bonus day, unexpected and joyful. I met with Varwell in the morning, for a coffee, as we discussed all manners of highbrow topics, and he accidentally guffawed far too loudly at one point, disrupting the entire coffeeshop/bookstore. Then I took a gentle stroll, bought a brand new housecoat (the gentleman's speckled housecoat, I have called it), and had lunch at 10.30am. My afternoon was spent playing pool on my deluxe table, looking at the pounding rain outside and being glad I was inside and cosy with my new housecoat, reading Calvin and Hobbes, playing a silly computer game and later on viewing a flat (for my mother, not for me). Then it was time to finish the port and cheese: finished.
So a day of inconsequence and indulgence, an unexpected bonus. And it will likely be the last day of such indolence for some time, as the job in Azerbaijan looks to be a biggie. Tons and tons of equipment, and all sorts of fancy stuff being done with it. And thus lots and lots of hard, physical graft for me to supervise over as I sip coffee.
Yes, a frightening amount of work, but don't worry, if it gets too much I'll just "pull a Luanda" and set fire to my passport. I'll try not to burn down the main office this time though.
With my work, I am resigned for days to sometimes disappear. A classic example being on a job in Equatorial Guinea a couple of years back: after having spent many hours feeding a cable into a hole, it transpired that the test engineer - a backwards bumpkin called "Mallett" single-handedly responsible for the imposition of the accursed 11pm onshore curfew - had made a basic error of calculation, which meant we would have to spend many hours pulling the cable back out of the hole before putting it back in again. Running cable in and out of a hole for hours and hours, let me tell you, is not fun. Not at all. And Mallett's maths mistake resigned me and the rest of the crew on the job to another 24 hours of it. When this stupid, stupid, stupid mistake and its consequences were realised, I turned to Mr Calm, who was the job leader, and said, "I suppose the way to think about all this is that it's one more day on this rig, and therefore in a lifetime of finite duration, one less day of our lives to actually live." Mr Calm just nodded, slowly and quietly. "One less day," he said.
And such things often happen. Days disappear. Why, I remember being just 27 years old and starting in the glorious offshore world. What young and fresh days these were. Now I'm 30, life is whizzing past me, and I find myself jaded, and contorted with bitterness. My eager face has long since been mangled into a dour scowl. The days disappear, one by one, a clock ticking ever louder and ever closer to its final tock.
But sometimes, though it may be a trick of the mind, a bonus day comes along. Today was such. On Saturday, after I'd meandered down to a nearby antiques shop and bought a lovely rolltop antique desk, a lovely antique cutlery set, a lovely antique box, and a lovely antique book, I got a phonecall - the lovely sound of my boss. Guess what, he said, your freedom is ending and soon you will be stuck on a metal hell surrounded by angry men. I paraphrase, but that's the gist.
So, I was supposed to be going to Azerbaijan today, and thus I spent Sunday getting prepared. Packing takes me about 20 minutes, and so the rest of my day was spent indulging in my "last day" routine. This is a routine that has been developing in the last year, as I prepare myself for going away again. It involves drinking a bottle of port, eating some very strong cheese, often smoking a pipe or cigar, and pacing about and ranting. These are all some of my favourite hobbies. But then, midway into the bottle of port, a phonecall interrupted my Sunday evening. Because Azerbaijan is on a two week national holiday (I fully endore this concept) something or other couldn't happen and so something else had to be done (I'd drunk half a bottle of port so wasn't retaining the details here). Thus, my flight was delayed from 6.30am on Monday to 9.55am on Tuesday. Hurray!
So today has been a bonus day, unexpected and joyful. I met with Varwell in the morning, for a coffee, as we discussed all manners of highbrow topics, and he accidentally guffawed far too loudly at one point, disrupting the entire coffeeshop/bookstore. Then I took a gentle stroll, bought a brand new housecoat (the gentleman's speckled housecoat, I have called it), and had lunch at 10.30am. My afternoon was spent playing pool on my deluxe table, looking at the pounding rain outside and being glad I was inside and cosy with my new housecoat, reading Calvin and Hobbes, playing a silly computer game and later on viewing a flat (for my mother, not for me). Then it was time to finish the port and cheese: finished.
So a day of inconsequence and indulgence, an unexpected bonus. And it will likely be the last day of such indolence for some time, as the job in Azerbaijan looks to be a biggie. Tons and tons of equipment, and all sorts of fancy stuff being done with it. And thus lots and lots of hard, physical graft for me to supervise over as I sip coffee.
Yes, a frightening amount of work, but don't worry, if it gets too much I'll just "pull a Luanda" and set fire to my passport. I'll try not to burn down the main office this time though.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Some Statistics
I've been home for a few days now, relishing the cool air and good beer. I popped into the office on Tuesday to do a tiny bit of paperwork but found myself sucked into a world of experiments and demos, that I hope will be ending today. Gosh, the regular working week is tough. However, my reason for writing is not to lament being dragged into the routine of the normal worker (which in fairness doesn't end at lunchtime as I manage to make it) but to force you, my dear reader, to enter into my world of statistics.
I had a bit of a stats binge last week, while sitting drinking beer in Johannesburg airport and while on the flight. I sat, supped beer, and thought "I wonder how many airports I've ever been to?" or "I wonder how many people I've met from the ex-Soviet nations?" Such vital subjects deserved much thought, so these and many others I worked out and I can now present to you here.
Total Number of Flights (excluding helicopter): 116.
I seriously think I can remember, if not each flight per se, but each occasion I had need to take a flight. It's not too difficult, just a matter of thinking of each holiday, or each place I've been to with work. Work constitutes 72 of these flights. There's a +/-1 error margin as I'm a little vague on the exact flights I took in Brazil. If helicopter flights were to be included then there'd be about another 40 added to this tally.
2007 had the most flights, with 45, and almost an entire week spent in the air.
Number of beds I've slept in this year: 12.
Alas, this has not been a first quarter of salacious mayhem. Work dominates, with three rig beds (including the 8-man container offshore Mozambique), five staffhouse beds, but only one hotel. I'm not counting overnight flights, of which there were four, as these seats hardly constitute sleeping units, especially as work persist in sending me on economy class. Me, economy! It's crazy, I know.
Total passports ever owned: 7.
In my youth, I had a passport that eventually expired after ten years of minimal usage. Since then I've had six and lost four through "mishaps". Currently I stand at two passports, but will be getting another after the unfortunate disintegration of Halliburton's main office in Angola.
Countries visited: 39
11 of these have been through work, although I've visited Egypt for recreation too. Some of the above total have only been for a few hours though, such as Luxembourg and Mozambique, and I'm not counting Taiwan or Barbados, which I only passed through in transit. I've only lived in two countries - the UK and Korea - though have probably spent an accumulative total of six months in Brazil.
Media appearances: 8.
This is, if you had somehow read every paper, magazine or comic, and watched every TV programme since my birth, how many times I would have appeared, to my knowledge. I'm not counting the internet, because it's a load of rubbish.
In no particular order, my moments of fame have been:
- Tema Magazine. The Bulgarian version of Time magazine in November 2001 featured a two page article about me and Simon, which included a full page photo of myself. This wasn't because of any inherent celebrity, but purely opportunistic as the magazine was doing an article about youth hostels in Sofia, and we happened to be the token foreigners there. As I recall to everyone when I regale this tale, the journalist was especially, achingly pretty, and gave me her phonenumber. It is of lasting regret that instead of phoning this young maiden I went to Romania.
- Dingwall Academy Magazine. This was an annual magazine produced by the school, on general sale in Dingwall and the surrounding area. I can't remember why I was in it one year, but I'm sure I did. Maybe I wrote a little poem or story.
- some TV programme on Channel 4. My father was featured on some Channel programme when I was about 13, so I was sneaked on for a few seconds depicting a "normal family scene", which was, for some reason, me playing chess with my father in the kitchen. This experience taught me that all TV is fake.
- the Press & Journal. About ten years ago, my mother won "mother of the year" in the Press & Journal, the newspaper for the north of Scotland. This was after having being nominated by my sister. As part of the article, I got a namecheck.
- Buster comic. When I was just a boy, I used to read comics voraciously. Not stupid stuff like Batman and Superman, that takes itself far too seriously for a bunch of cartoons, but cartoon strip-style comics like the Beano, Dandy, and my favourite, Buster, now defunct. I earned myself £2 by writing a very thoughtful letter into the letters page. This was something like 1988, so £2 then was worth a hell of a lot. Two weeks wages, in fact.
- Moray Firth Radio. I'm sure when I was about ten I was in the broadcasting part of the local radio station, along with a handful of other boys, for some reason that now eludes me. I recall it being on live, and the DJ - inevitably local DJ sensation "Titch McCooey" who seemed to be on 18 hours a day - asking us questions. But I'm not sure if I said much, or anything, so my subtle, understated eyebrow movements may have been wasted on radio.
- Israeli TV. While in Tel Aviv with Simon, in the youth hostel, an Israeli satellite TV broadcaster took a few shots of us on the hostel roof at sunset. I can't remember what the programme was called, but I do remember that every Israeli I asked about it had never heard of it before.
- TV. There was a football game on at Pittodrie a few years back between Scotland and the Faroe Islands, Scotland winning 2-0, and I was standing next to a piper. Upon seeing the highlights, there was a shot of the piper and surrounding area for a couple of seconds. Blink and you miss it - but there I was.
Number of fingers: 10
Number of jobs: 12.
This covers any paid employment, and I'm including my first ever job here, which was potato picking in a local field. I was only about ten, and got paid £1/day for 8 hours work, or was able to opt for a bag of potatoes instead. This seems so unlikely that I feel I must have mis-remembered. Other jobs have included Wimpy chef (and dressing up as Mr Wimpy once), old folks' hospital cleaner, dishwasher, glass collector, door-to-door salesman (didn't last very long), English teacher, and my current position as pioneering acoustical engineering specialist, or something like that. I'm not counting being a property baron here, though I suppose it brings in more revenue than a bag of potatoes a day.
Number of ex-Soviet nations from which I've met a citizen: 5.
A disappointing tally, to be honest. I've wracked my brain, but I can't recall meeting a single Latvian, Lithuanian, Estonian or even Georgian. I mean, you don't expect to meet many Tajikstanis or Turkmenistanis, but you think I'd have met a Georgian by now. Anyway, I've met the following:
- Uzbekistan. A couple of lovely 19-year-olds when I was in Korea. Gosh, they were lovely. I had such wicked intentions, but they were far too sensible.
- Kazakhstan. Also in Korea, I met a mental, tough-looking guy with gold teeth while waiting at a fountain. He was surely a gangster.
-Russia. I've surely met many Russians, but the ones that spring to mind are the two room salon girls that Matt befriended, and introduced to me very late one night. All very civilised, I'll have you know, I treat women like actual real people. One was called Linda, and was from Vladivostock, and was lovely, but no stunner, the other... oh, hang on, I think the other was another Uzbek. She was quite pretty, but a total maniac. Not even Matt would touch her - and that's saying something.
-Ukraine. While in a Tel Aviv hostel, a different one from the one that televised me, I befriended a Ukranian guy, surely called Vlad. He was a nice guy, but couldn't drink alcohol due to a road accident. He offered to buy my passport off me if I ever shaved my beard, as we would look alike. I said ok, but alas have still not shaved my beard.
-Moldova. I think Moldova used to be Soviet. Or did it break off from Romania? Anyway, on the overnight train from Bucharest to Sofia, a Moldovan called Antony joined us in the compartment and let us have some of his meat. No, really, he had some meat in a bag that he generously offered us. I never questioned what type of meat it was, and never, ever, would.
Goals scored in international football: 0
Number of football stadiums visited: 18.
Seven of these have been in Scotland, with Ross County's theatre of dreams, Victoria Park, notching up multiple visits. I've been to some seriously obscure foreign ones, like Slovenian "4th division" SK Piran's field with an embankment for the 50 fans and castle walls overlooking the pitch for those who didn't want to pay the £1 entry. Toftir's mountain-top stadium in the Faroes is probably the most scenic stadium, and the biggest is probably the main stadium in Seoul, although I was only there for a visit, not a game.
Homes I've lived in: 16
The first six homes were before the age of five, my gypsy-like family evidently being hounded from town to town. From then, the next thirteen years were in the same place in Dingwall. Since 2001, I've averaged a new home every year, although I'm quite settled in my current dwellings (though the hookers outside have dried up... I mean, that is, that there aren't really any hookers there any more)
Airports visited: 47 or 48.
Do you want the full list? No?
Vehicles owned: 6.
The accumulative value of my first five cars was £870; the Ford Transit at £750 was a real budget-breaker. You'll be unsurprised to hear that all six vehicles no longer exist except as scrap metal, and that I was the last driver of each.
Number of national pub quiz victories: 2.
In 2000, I won Scottish (student) pub quiz finals, and trips to both New York and Cairo. The New York victory was pretty much deserved, but the Cairo one is a dirty tale of cunning and dastardliness. I also won a pub quiz in Mauritania a couple of years ago - as the rest of the country is Muslim and doesn't go much in for the pubs, I'll warrant that I was probably national champion back then.
Number of words written so far in this blog entry: 1849.
And that's quite enough.
I had a bit of a stats binge last week, while sitting drinking beer in Johannesburg airport and while on the flight. I sat, supped beer, and thought "I wonder how many airports I've ever been to?" or "I wonder how many people I've met from the ex-Soviet nations?" Such vital subjects deserved much thought, so these and many others I worked out and I can now present to you here.
Total Number of Flights (excluding helicopter): 116.
I seriously think I can remember, if not each flight per se, but each occasion I had need to take a flight. It's not too difficult, just a matter of thinking of each holiday, or each place I've been to with work. Work constitutes 72 of these flights. There's a +/-1 error margin as I'm a little vague on the exact flights I took in Brazil. If helicopter flights were to be included then there'd be about another 40 added to this tally.
2007 had the most flights, with 45, and almost an entire week spent in the air.
Number of beds I've slept in this year: 12.
Alas, this has not been a first quarter of salacious mayhem. Work dominates, with three rig beds (including the 8-man container offshore Mozambique), five staffhouse beds, but only one hotel. I'm not counting overnight flights, of which there were four, as these seats hardly constitute sleeping units, especially as work persist in sending me on economy class. Me, economy! It's crazy, I know.
Total passports ever owned: 7.
In my youth, I had a passport that eventually expired after ten years of minimal usage. Since then I've had six and lost four through "mishaps". Currently I stand at two passports, but will be getting another after the unfortunate disintegration of Halliburton's main office in Angola.
Countries visited: 39
11 of these have been through work, although I've visited Egypt for recreation too. Some of the above total have only been for a few hours though, such as Luxembourg and Mozambique, and I'm not counting Taiwan or Barbados, which I only passed through in transit. I've only lived in two countries - the UK and Korea - though have probably spent an accumulative total of six months in Brazil.
Media appearances: 8.
This is, if you had somehow read every paper, magazine or comic, and watched every TV programme since my birth, how many times I would have appeared, to my knowledge. I'm not counting the internet, because it's a load of rubbish.
In no particular order, my moments of fame have been:
- Tema Magazine. The Bulgarian version of Time magazine in November 2001 featured a two page article about me and Simon, which included a full page photo of myself. This wasn't because of any inherent celebrity, but purely opportunistic as the magazine was doing an article about youth hostels in Sofia, and we happened to be the token foreigners there. As I recall to everyone when I regale this tale, the journalist was especially, achingly pretty, and gave me her phonenumber. It is of lasting regret that instead of phoning this young maiden I went to Romania.
- Dingwall Academy Magazine. This was an annual magazine produced by the school, on general sale in Dingwall and the surrounding area. I can't remember why I was in it one year, but I'm sure I did. Maybe I wrote a little poem or story.
- some TV programme on Channel 4. My father was featured on some Channel programme when I was about 13, so I was sneaked on for a few seconds depicting a "normal family scene", which was, for some reason, me playing chess with my father in the kitchen. This experience taught me that all TV is fake.
- the Press & Journal. About ten years ago, my mother won "mother of the year" in the Press & Journal, the newspaper for the north of Scotland. This was after having being nominated by my sister. As part of the article, I got a namecheck.
- Buster comic. When I was just a boy, I used to read comics voraciously. Not stupid stuff like Batman and Superman, that takes itself far too seriously for a bunch of cartoons, but cartoon strip-style comics like the Beano, Dandy, and my favourite, Buster, now defunct. I earned myself £2 by writing a very thoughtful letter into the letters page. This was something like 1988, so £2 then was worth a hell of a lot. Two weeks wages, in fact.
- Moray Firth Radio. I'm sure when I was about ten I was in the broadcasting part of the local radio station, along with a handful of other boys, for some reason that now eludes me. I recall it being on live, and the DJ - inevitably local DJ sensation "Titch McCooey" who seemed to be on 18 hours a day - asking us questions. But I'm not sure if I said much, or anything, so my subtle, understated eyebrow movements may have been wasted on radio.
- Israeli TV. While in Tel Aviv with Simon, in the youth hostel, an Israeli satellite TV broadcaster took a few shots of us on the hostel roof at sunset. I can't remember what the programme was called, but I do remember that every Israeli I asked about it had never heard of it before.
- TV. There was a football game on at Pittodrie a few years back between Scotland and the Faroe Islands, Scotland winning 2-0, and I was standing next to a piper. Upon seeing the highlights, there was a shot of the piper and surrounding area for a couple of seconds. Blink and you miss it - but there I was.
Number of fingers: 10
Number of jobs: 12.
This covers any paid employment, and I'm including my first ever job here, which was potato picking in a local field. I was only about ten, and got paid £1/day for 8 hours work, or was able to opt for a bag of potatoes instead. This seems so unlikely that I feel I must have mis-remembered. Other jobs have included Wimpy chef (and dressing up as Mr Wimpy once), old folks' hospital cleaner, dishwasher, glass collector, door-to-door salesman (didn't last very long), English teacher, and my current position as pioneering acoustical engineering specialist, or something like that. I'm not counting being a property baron here, though I suppose it brings in more revenue than a bag of potatoes a day.
Number of ex-Soviet nations from which I've met a citizen: 5.
A disappointing tally, to be honest. I've wracked my brain, but I can't recall meeting a single Latvian, Lithuanian, Estonian or even Georgian. I mean, you don't expect to meet many Tajikstanis or Turkmenistanis, but you think I'd have met a Georgian by now. Anyway, I've met the following:
- Uzbekistan. A couple of lovely 19-year-olds when I was in Korea. Gosh, they were lovely. I had such wicked intentions, but they were far too sensible.
- Kazakhstan. Also in Korea, I met a mental, tough-looking guy with gold teeth while waiting at a fountain. He was surely a gangster.
-Russia. I've surely met many Russians, but the ones that spring to mind are the two room salon girls that Matt befriended, and introduced to me very late one night. All very civilised, I'll have you know, I treat women like actual real people. One was called Linda, and was from Vladivostock, and was lovely, but no stunner, the other... oh, hang on, I think the other was another Uzbek. She was quite pretty, but a total maniac. Not even Matt would touch her - and that's saying something.
-Ukraine. While in a Tel Aviv hostel, a different one from the one that televised me, I befriended a Ukranian guy, surely called Vlad. He was a nice guy, but couldn't drink alcohol due to a road accident. He offered to buy my passport off me if I ever shaved my beard, as we would look alike. I said ok, but alas have still not shaved my beard.
-Moldova. I think Moldova used to be Soviet. Or did it break off from Romania? Anyway, on the overnight train from Bucharest to Sofia, a Moldovan called Antony joined us in the compartment and let us have some of his meat. No, really, he had some meat in a bag that he generously offered us. I never questioned what type of meat it was, and never, ever, would.
Goals scored in international football: 0
Number of football stadiums visited: 18.
Seven of these have been in Scotland, with Ross County's theatre of dreams, Victoria Park, notching up multiple visits. I've been to some seriously obscure foreign ones, like Slovenian "4th division" SK Piran's field with an embankment for the 50 fans and castle walls overlooking the pitch for those who didn't want to pay the £1 entry. Toftir's mountain-top stadium in the Faroes is probably the most scenic stadium, and the biggest is probably the main stadium in Seoul, although I was only there for a visit, not a game.
Homes I've lived in: 16
The first six homes were before the age of five, my gypsy-like family evidently being hounded from town to town. From then, the next thirteen years were in the same place in Dingwall. Since 2001, I've averaged a new home every year, although I'm quite settled in my current dwellings (though the hookers outside have dried up... I mean, that is, that there aren't really any hookers there any more)
Airports visited: 47 or 48.
Do you want the full list? No?
Vehicles owned: 6.
The accumulative value of my first five cars was £870; the Ford Transit at £750 was a real budget-breaker. You'll be unsurprised to hear that all six vehicles no longer exist except as scrap metal, and that I was the last driver of each.
Number of national pub quiz victories: 2.
In 2000, I won Scottish (student) pub quiz finals, and trips to both New York and Cairo. The New York victory was pretty much deserved, but the Cairo one is a dirty tale of cunning and dastardliness. I also won a pub quiz in Mauritania a couple of years ago - as the rest of the country is Muslim and doesn't go much in for the pubs, I'll warrant that I was probably national champion back then.
Number of words written so far in this blog entry: 1849.
And that's quite enough.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Luanda Getaway
It seems somewhat counter-intuitive to fly for three hours in the wrong direction, then wait for six hours before finally getting a flight in the right direction. But I don’t mind so much. For one thing, I’ve managed to get out of Luanda: armed with my backup passport, photocopies of my old passport and visa, and an agency guy to do all the smooth talking, I was able to slide gracefully through customs and escape with a mere $300 fine – which Halliburton pay anyway. Quick, painless, no bribes or anal rape in dark rooms required. I then flew for three hours to Johannesburg, where I am now, waiting and poised to have some more beers to smooth the passage of waiting.
The airport in Johannesburg is pretty nice too. Luanda’s international airport doesn’t really tingle the pleasure senses, unless you’re a fan of os interios drab, but Johannesburg has a really quite pleasant departure lounge area, with shops, space, bright lights, clear signage, and bars – though it could do with a few more. It’s laid out well, and doesn’t feel like an endurance test like most African airports, or the godawful Charles de Gaul.
I’ll be on a flight in a few hours, and by tomorrow morning touching down in the lovely city of Aberdeen. I say that only semi-facetiously. After the sweaty, intense, unremittingly unattractive megaslum that is Luanda, being back in a cool, calm and architecturally good-looking city will be a pleasure. Being allowed to go out at dark and not fear for my life or laptop will be a relief. Insane and idiotic traffic turning a fifteen minute drive into a two hour ordeal makes Aberdeen's rush hour seem like a petty complaint. Not having bored guards hovering listlessly outside every residence (in the “good” part of the city, at least) won’t be missed. Aberdeen may have a touch of the dour, and have its fair share of whingers, but I hope not to be one of these: I like Aberdeen, and its qualities shine when compared to some of the depressing pits of this Earth.
So, two more flights and 17 more hours. And many more beers, I expect.
The airport in Johannesburg is pretty nice too. Luanda’s international airport doesn’t really tingle the pleasure senses, unless you’re a fan of os interios drab, but Johannesburg has a really quite pleasant departure lounge area, with shops, space, bright lights, clear signage, and bars – though it could do with a few more. It’s laid out well, and doesn’t feel like an endurance test like most African airports, or the godawful Charles de Gaul.
I’ll be on a flight in a few hours, and by tomorrow morning touching down in the lovely city of Aberdeen. I say that only semi-facetiously. After the sweaty, intense, unremittingly unattractive megaslum that is Luanda, being back in a cool, calm and architecturally good-looking city will be a pleasure. Being allowed to go out at dark and not fear for my life or laptop will be a relief. Insane and idiotic traffic turning a fifteen minute drive into a two hour ordeal makes Aberdeen's rush hour seem like a petty complaint. Not having bored guards hovering listlessly outside every residence (in the “good” part of the city, at least) won’t be missed. Aberdeen may have a touch of the dour, and have its fair share of whingers, but I hope not to be one of these: I like Aberdeen, and its qualities shine when compared to some of the depressing pits of this Earth.
So, two more flights and 17 more hours. And many more beers, I expect.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Passport Up In Flames
Well, it looks like my passport perished. As the main office disappeared into flames, so did my hopes of escape from Angola.
I had the last three days at leisure. Drinking beers in the evening sun and enjoying crisply barbecued food in the staffhouse. Nothing really happened, and I barely strayed beyond our guarded gates. Luanda has a bit of a reputation for badness, something not assuaged by the presence of four (armed?) guards at the nearby cornershop, and although I wouldn't have been worried about a daytime stroll through the city, it was just too hot, and there's nothing to see anyway. Really, Luanda is not a pretty place. Everything's falling apart, dust and car fumes fill the air, and more attention has to be paid into not walking into a pothole than enjoying what sights may be on offer.
I was back in the yard today and got my first viewing of what used to be the main office. Yup, it's pretty much levelled. The actual office building, three storeys I believe, is now a pile of charred rubble. It's believed an electrical fault on the third floor was the likely culprit. The office was attached to a covered yard, the metal roof of which has buckled and collapsed. The whole scene was like a small slice of the apocalypse. It still smells of burning and ash. There was a meeting at 8am, in which a man jumped on the back of a pick-up and spoke Portuguese for fifteen minutes; the English translation lasted thirty seconds.
And somewhere in the devastation lay my passport, or at least a bunch of dust that once constituted it. I do have a spare passport with me, but it doesn't have the visa, and so isn't much use for getting out of the country if I hope not to get arrested at the airport and given a thorough physical overhauling by the gents at immigration in some grimy back room. One solution is to go to the British Embassy and get an emergency passport out of the country; another is to use the photocopies of my old passport and visa and maybe some help from Halliburton; and another is simply to live in Angola for the rest of my life.
We'll see. The pace of progress is not too speedy over here, but I can take some solace in the fact I'm getting paid pretty well for doing really very little indeed.
Incidentally, this is now the fourth passport I've lost in just over three years. At least this one isn't really my fault (I choose not to divulge the lapses of sense that led to the previous three going AWOL).
I had the last three days at leisure. Drinking beers in the evening sun and enjoying crisply barbecued food in the staffhouse. Nothing really happened, and I barely strayed beyond our guarded gates. Luanda has a bit of a reputation for badness, something not assuaged by the presence of four (armed?) guards at the nearby cornershop, and although I wouldn't have been worried about a daytime stroll through the city, it was just too hot, and there's nothing to see anyway. Really, Luanda is not a pretty place. Everything's falling apart, dust and car fumes fill the air, and more attention has to be paid into not walking into a pothole than enjoying what sights may be on offer.
I was back in the yard today and got my first viewing of what used to be the main office. Yup, it's pretty much levelled. The actual office building, three storeys I believe, is now a pile of charred rubble. It's believed an electrical fault on the third floor was the likely culprit. The office was attached to a covered yard, the metal roof of which has buckled and collapsed. The whole scene was like a small slice of the apocalypse. It still smells of burning and ash. There was a meeting at 8am, in which a man jumped on the back of a pick-up and spoke Portuguese for fifteen minutes; the English translation lasted thirty seconds.
And somewhere in the devastation lay my passport, or at least a bunch of dust that once constituted it. I do have a spare passport with me, but it doesn't have the visa, and so isn't much use for getting out of the country if I hope not to get arrested at the airport and given a thorough physical overhauling by the gents at immigration in some grimy back room. One solution is to go to the British Embassy and get an emergency passport out of the country; another is to use the photocopies of my old passport and visa and maybe some help from Halliburton; and another is simply to live in Angola for the rest of my life.
We'll see. The pace of progress is not too speedy over here, but I can take some solace in the fact I'm getting paid pretty well for doing really very little indeed.
Incidentally, this is now the fourth passport I've lost in just over three years. At least this one isn't really my fault (I choose not to divulge the lapses of sense that led to the previous three going AWOL).
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