We awoke on Day two feeling surprisingly human and decided to hit one of Amsterdams coffee shops. Not being much of a smoker I made a very poor attempt at pretending to know what I was doing. Paddy took the far more sensible route and decided to buy a brownie. Unfortunately being Paddy he took the guy behind the counter exactly for his word. He returned with his brownie and said, "The bloke said it will be twenty minutes before I feel anything."
He wolfed it down and twenty minutes and three seconds later professed he was fine, so he returned to the counter to get something else. This led to quite possibly the funniest conversation on tour. It went something like this:
Paddy: Hello there, can I have one of those 'special' twixes (winks conspicuously)
Counter guy: It's just a twix mate
Paddy: Yes but is it a special twix (frantic winking)
Counter guy: No, it's just a f*cking twix.
Paddy: Oh. In that case I'll have another brownie
None of us fared well for the rest of the morning and much giggling ensued, but being students we decided the best thing to make us feel better was some drinking, and where better to go drinking than the Heineken brewery! They had a walking tour of the facility which included vouchers for two free drinks. The first one was at a little bar halfway through the tour, but the second one was in an awesome cavern style bar right at the end. The tour itself wasn't what I would call thrilling, knowing how beer is made isn't nearly as exciting as drinking it, but we managed to entertain ourselves. By the time we reached the end bar we had worked up a thirst and started a few drinking games. This is when things got interesting. You see apparently a lot of old people were interested in finding out how beer is made, but they weren't bothered about drinking it. Soon we had entire coach loads of old people stopping by at our table on the way out and saying things along the lines of 'oh you youngsters look like you're having a good time, would you like my free drinks vouchers?' Yes Grandma, yes we would. This led to us spending a number of hours in the Heineken museum, drinking for nowt. Eventually the grim looking manager came over and asked us politely to leave as we were being 'a bit rowdy'. You would think the brewery would encourage people drinking a lot, but apparently only if they are drinking lots somewhere else. We took our branded half pint glasses in fancy metal tins (important for later) and staggered back to the hostel, with a quick pitstop at a fine eating establishment known as Maccers. Then we decided to go to Dirty Nellies. There more drinking happened, but if anything noteworthy happened, I was too drunk at this point to notice.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Verbal & Co in Amsterdam - Day 1
So we made it to Amsterdam in one piece, although my hangover was doing its best to make me feel like I was in fact several pieces. I'm going to backtrack slightly from the previous post, to when we had just stepped off the airplane. We didn't manage to get very far before the trouble began...
To get to Amsterdam city from the airport you catch a train. The sounds like a simple premise, but somehow we managed to make it complicated. Just as the ticket machine was spitting out our tickets an announcement informed us that the train was about to leave. We bolted for the train and everyone made it on....except for me and Paddy. We frantically did our best mime impression through the window to the rest of the gang to establish that we would meet them at the final stop. Feeling a bit stupid Paddy and I got on the next train which pulled up a few minutes later.
We were well on our way to the city and minding our own business when we were approached by two uniformed blokes. They politely informed us to produce our tickets. That would have been a whole lot easier if Martin didn't have all the tickets. We tried to explain to them that we didn't have tickets but there was a perfectly reasonable explanation why. They listened to our story, agreed how plausible it was, and then proceeded to fine us seventy quid. We were so unimpressed we refused to let them inspect the rest of the carriage, and instead insisted they wait to see our friends with the tickets waiting patiently for us in just a few stations time. You can imagine my surprise when that is exactly what happened, the rest of the gang were precisely where they said they would be, they showed the nice ticket inspectors our tickets and they gracefully returned our fine. Normally things like that don't happen to me.
The minor incident with the ticket inspectors was enough for me and Paddy to be branded joint 'dick of the day'. Someone had thoughtfully come prepared with a suitable outfit, two day-glo builders vests which they had found in their attic. For reasons unknown both vests stank like curry powder, as if the previous owners had enjoyed rolling around in the stuff. We donned the outfits and did indeed look like total dicks - mission accomplished.
We hot footed it to our hostel, which as previously mentioned was in the gay red light district. Our room was the 'penthouse' which apparently is Dutch for attic. No sooner had we unpacked than Martin had jumped out the window for a spot of roof running. Obviously with him being such an eternal bad influence on me I joined him, and we jumped around for a bit trying to ignore the fact we were five stories up. Eventually we got bored of risking life and limb so we ventured back to our hostels roof. Martin performed some kind of reverse chin up swing to get back into the room, making it look easy. I attempted something similar but due to my total lack of upper body strength I lost the grip halfway through and had the first of what would be many tour based near death experiences. Thankfully old spade hands managed to grab me and drag me back onto solid ground.
The specifics of what happened next escape me, but the end result is that somehow we ended up drinking in the park, somewhat like a large group of hobos. I am sure several people would have called the police if Paddy and I weren't dressed in our day-glo yellow jackets - I can only assume they thought we were concerned civil servants or suitable government authority figures who were already giving the group the necessary telling off. We established individual 'challenges' to complete during the course of the tour. I won't ruin the surprise by revealing them now, but to give you an idea my challenge was to stop a Taxi driver and ask him if he knew the way to San Hose, while someone else sang in the background.
After an afternoon of boozing we retired to the nearest pub to our hostel, a quaint establishment known as Dirty Nellies. This would become the unofficial hangout for the rest of the trip, and would itself lead to a near death experience for another member of the group. If anything scandalous happened on this first night I was too drunk to remember, all I know is that we decided tomorrow we would hit the coffee shops...
To get to Amsterdam city from the airport you catch a train. The sounds like a simple premise, but somehow we managed to make it complicated. Just as the ticket machine was spitting out our tickets an announcement informed us that the train was about to leave. We bolted for the train and everyone made it on....except for me and Paddy. We frantically did our best mime impression through the window to the rest of the gang to establish that we would meet them at the final stop. Feeling a bit stupid Paddy and I got on the next train which pulled up a few minutes later.
We were well on our way to the city and minding our own business when we were approached by two uniformed blokes. They politely informed us to produce our tickets. That would have been a whole lot easier if Martin didn't have all the tickets. We tried to explain to them that we didn't have tickets but there was a perfectly reasonable explanation why. They listened to our story, agreed how plausible it was, and then proceeded to fine us seventy quid. We were so unimpressed we refused to let them inspect the rest of the carriage, and instead insisted they wait to see our friends with the tickets waiting patiently for us in just a few stations time. You can imagine my surprise when that is exactly what happened, the rest of the gang were precisely where they said they would be, they showed the nice ticket inspectors our tickets and they gracefully returned our fine. Normally things like that don't happen to me.
The minor incident with the ticket inspectors was enough for me and Paddy to be branded joint 'dick of the day'. Someone had thoughtfully come prepared with a suitable outfit, two day-glo builders vests which they had found in their attic. For reasons unknown both vests stank like curry powder, as if the previous owners had enjoyed rolling around in the stuff. We donned the outfits and did indeed look like total dicks - mission accomplished.
We hot footed it to our hostel, which as previously mentioned was in the gay red light district. Our room was the 'penthouse' which apparently is Dutch for attic. No sooner had we unpacked than Martin had jumped out the window for a spot of roof running. Obviously with him being such an eternal bad influence on me I joined him, and we jumped around for a bit trying to ignore the fact we were five stories up. Eventually we got bored of risking life and limb so we ventured back to our hostels roof. Martin performed some kind of reverse chin up swing to get back into the room, making it look easy. I attempted something similar but due to my total lack of upper body strength I lost the grip halfway through and had the first of what would be many tour based near death experiences. Thankfully old spade hands managed to grab me and drag me back onto solid ground.
The specifics of what happened next escape me, but the end result is that somehow we ended up drinking in the park, somewhat like a large group of hobos. I am sure several people would have called the police if Paddy and I weren't dressed in our day-glo yellow jackets - I can only assume they thought we were concerned civil servants or suitable government authority figures who were already giving the group the necessary telling off. We established individual 'challenges' to complete during the course of the tour. I won't ruin the surprise by revealing them now, but to give you an idea my challenge was to stop a Taxi driver and ask him if he knew the way to San Hose, while someone else sang in the background.
After an afternoon of boozing we retired to the nearest pub to our hostel, a quaint establishment known as Dirty Nellies. This would become the unofficial hangout for the rest of the trip, and would itself lead to a near death experience for another member of the group. If anything scandalous happened on this first night I was too drunk to remember, all I know is that we decided tomorrow we would hit the coffee shops...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Verbal & Co in Amsterdam - The night before
I realise that the blog hasn't been super thrilling lately. Whilst I try and do something vaguely interesting which I can then write about, I've decided to re-live my very first trip with the squash team - a few days in sunny Amsterdam. I'm going to mainly focus on the dumb stuff that I did, but where applicable I'll incriminate a few friends along the way :)
Our trip got off to an auspicious start. The cheapest flights we could find were from Birmingham airport, which is thankfully a stones throw away from my parents house. We were leaving early in the morning, so the plan was for everyone to crash at mine and then for my extremely generous parents to drive us to the airport the next day. All I had to do was help to direct the guys down from up North, and Martin up from London. Simple enough you may think, but apparently not.
Martin arrived before everyone else, probably due to the fact he drives like a maniac. My Dad had already made his nightly trip to the local pub, and so soon after Martin arrived we decided to join him there and wait for the rest of the team to arrive. We drank a couple of pints and I soon received a phone call from the rest of the gang, telling me they had left the motorway and were on their way to mine. Unfortunately the muppets had left the motorway at completely the wrong junction, so I sent them back up the M1 to the correct junction. That left Martin and I with some time to kill, so we got in another couple of pints. My Dad sensibly chose his moment to leave the pub, before his offspring made a drunken tit of himself.
A few pints later and I was feeling a tad inebriated. This was when the local 'talent' made a beeline for our table. These were the finest women in the small local village pub, but the competition was hardly fierce. One of them took a bit of a shine to Martin, although it might have just been her lazy eye which happened to be pointing in his direction...
After what felt like a very long time (and a few more beers) the rest of the team arrived. For some reason they were very angry with me, although in my drunken state I was incapable of understanding why. I later found out they hadn't come off the wrong junction at all, they had just come a different way and were in fact no more than five minutes drive from the pub when I told them to turn around and drive all the way back up the M1. They realised this little fact when they went past a rather familiar looking roundabout two hours later. Oops...
We had a few more beers and then made the sensible choice to go back to my place and rest up, with a few days of solid boozing ahead sleep would be a rarity. Someone obviously supported me on my drunken stagger home, as I was rather far past my prime at this point. For some reason Martin seemed fine, despite having drank the same as me. This either makes me a lightweight or him hardcore. My guess is both.
Anyway I was out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow. When I woke up in the morning I was surprised to find the covers balled at the end of my bed, but I was in a hurry as we were flying, so I jumped out of bed and didn't even bother to make it. I threw on my clothes and herded the rest of the gang into my Dads van, whilst simultaneously feeling sorry for myself. My Mum was understandably less than impressed with the state I had come home in, but she was clearly saving the telling off for when I was alone, so I had a few days to prepare.
The flight was uneventful, and we made it to Amsterdam nice and early. In an attempt to get back into the good books I phoned my parents to let them know we had made it. Unfortunately this plan backfired as I got a surprisingly angry Mum on the line, who informed me that I had thrown up in the night, whilst sleeping it seems, and instead of cleaning it up, I had simply folded the sheets over and gone back to sleep. She had discovered the resultant sick sandwich just before I phoned her. Oops again - sorry Mum! We went in search of our hotel which we had mistakenly let Paddy arrange, only to find it smack bang in the centre of Amsterdams Gay Red light district. Our first tour had officially began...
Our trip got off to an auspicious start. The cheapest flights we could find were from Birmingham airport, which is thankfully a stones throw away from my parents house. We were leaving early in the morning, so the plan was for everyone to crash at mine and then for my extremely generous parents to drive us to the airport the next day. All I had to do was help to direct the guys down from up North, and Martin up from London. Simple enough you may think, but apparently not.
Martin arrived before everyone else, probably due to the fact he drives like a maniac. My Dad had already made his nightly trip to the local pub, and so soon after Martin arrived we decided to join him there and wait for the rest of the team to arrive. We drank a couple of pints and I soon received a phone call from the rest of the gang, telling me they had left the motorway and were on their way to mine. Unfortunately the muppets had left the motorway at completely the wrong junction, so I sent them back up the M1 to the correct junction. That left Martin and I with some time to kill, so we got in another couple of pints. My Dad sensibly chose his moment to leave the pub, before his offspring made a drunken tit of himself.
A few pints later and I was feeling a tad inebriated. This was when the local 'talent' made a beeline for our table. These were the finest women in the small local village pub, but the competition was hardly fierce. One of them took a bit of a shine to Martin, although it might have just been her lazy eye which happened to be pointing in his direction...
After what felt like a very long time (and a few more beers) the rest of the team arrived. For some reason they were very angry with me, although in my drunken state I was incapable of understanding why. I later found out they hadn't come off the wrong junction at all, they had just come a different way and were in fact no more than five minutes drive from the pub when I told them to turn around and drive all the way back up the M1. They realised this little fact when they went past a rather familiar looking roundabout two hours later. Oops...
We had a few more beers and then made the sensible choice to go back to my place and rest up, with a few days of solid boozing ahead sleep would be a rarity. Someone obviously supported me on my drunken stagger home, as I was rather far past my prime at this point. For some reason Martin seemed fine, despite having drank the same as me. This either makes me a lightweight or him hardcore. My guess is both.
Anyway I was out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow. When I woke up in the morning I was surprised to find the covers balled at the end of my bed, but I was in a hurry as we were flying, so I jumped out of bed and didn't even bother to make it. I threw on my clothes and herded the rest of the gang into my Dads van, whilst simultaneously feeling sorry for myself. My Mum was understandably less than impressed with the state I had come home in, but she was clearly saving the telling off for when I was alone, so I had a few days to prepare.
The flight was uneventful, and we made it to Amsterdam nice and early. In an attempt to get back into the good books I phoned my parents to let them know we had made it. Unfortunately this plan backfired as I got a surprisingly angry Mum on the line, who informed me that I had thrown up in the night, whilst sleeping it seems, and instead of cleaning it up, I had simply folded the sheets over and gone back to sleep. She had discovered the resultant sick sandwich just before I phoned her. Oops again - sorry Mum! We went in search of our hotel which we had mistakenly let Paddy arrange, only to find it smack bang in the centre of Amsterdams Gay Red light district. Our first tour had officially began...
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
A few of my favourite things...
The astute amongst you may have noticed that I didn't update the blog last week. This wasn't due to extreme laziness but was in fact a result of me being back in the Uk all of last week. I've decided not to go into detail in regards the funeral that I came back for, not because it wasn't a brilliant ceremony but because it was a very personal experience that I couldn't really do justice in words. Instead I'm going to focus on a few of the other things I realised whilst being back home.
Here's one of the funny things about travelling, every time you go and live abroad you find several things you especially like in that country. These are generally things you can't find anywhere else. As an example, in Melbourne there was a cafe called Max Brenners, in which you could purchase all manner of things that were quite literally lathered in chocolate. You name it, they would coat it in deliciously warm melted chocolate. My favourite was the chocolate covered Belgian waffle accompanied by a white chocolate mocha which was made by mixing Melbourne's excellent coffee with dollops of gooey white chocolate. Yum!
Of course everyone would tell you that is the point of travelling and living abroad, to experience all these new and different things. What they don't tell you is that you then have to leave these things behind, and no matter how hard you try you can't find anything quite like it anywhere else. Whenever I have a mocha in Canada I can't help but think 'this isn't bad, but its no Max Brenners...'
Anyway that little rant did serve a purpose. One of the key differences about where you grew up is that there are lots of things you miss that you don't even realise. When I was back I noticed all kinds of things that I can't get elsewhere (without considerable effort and investment at least). Here's a good example - flavours of crisps! In the Uk there are all kinds of flavours of crisps that just don't exist abroad. I sat and had a pint and some prawn cocktail crisps in my local and found myself wishing I could do the same in Canada. I'd never sat in a pub in Canada and thought 'you know what I could do with now, some prawn cocktail crisps' but I'm fairly certain that's exactly what will happen the next time I settle down to a pint and a packet of bog standard salt and vinegar. The same can be said of baked beans, which are a bit of a staple of mine, which never taste quite the same abroad. One plate of beans of toast back in Blighty reminded me what I was missing.
One other thing you just can't replicate is the people. I was lucky enough to spend Sunday in a pub beer garden down in London, relaxing with several good friends. The garden was positively heaving with people, it was as if every person in Clapham took a look at the weather report and said, 'right, sod what I had planned to do today, lets just go find a nice beer garden!' In Australia or Canada, where admittedly the weather is warmer slightly more often, you just don't find that same enthusiasm for the fleeting sunshine. Its funny because it is a feeling I still struggle to shake, I'm continually fighting the urge to run outside when the sun comes out, despite the fact that I know full well it will likely be just as hot for the whole rest of summer.
One other amusing side effect of my travels is my very messed up accent. It truly is a mongrel now, interspersed with multiple cliches from different places. I feel my British twang benefits greatly from the inclusion of the occasional 'no worries' or 'eh'. Amusingly my accent gets stronger whenever I visit home, leading to at least a week of confusion where my better half only understands half of what I'm saying until my accent 'normalises' again.
So my trip was short but it did make me realise that I do still love lots of things about England and no matter how long I live abroad there will always be a part of me that hankers for sunshine, decent beans on toast and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps! You can take the boy out of England...
P.S. In case you were wondering, here are a few of my favourite things:
Australia: Tim Tams, Coopers, Max Brenners, decent coffee, sunshine
Canada: Iced Cinnamon buns, Timmys hot chocolate, Kraft dinner, proper seasons
England: Beans, Prawn cocktail crisps, Custard creams, PG Tips, Binge drinking!
Here's one of the funny things about travelling, every time you go and live abroad you find several things you especially like in that country. These are generally things you can't find anywhere else. As an example, in Melbourne there was a cafe called Max Brenners, in which you could purchase all manner of things that were quite literally lathered in chocolate. You name it, they would coat it in deliciously warm melted chocolate. My favourite was the chocolate covered Belgian waffle accompanied by a white chocolate mocha which was made by mixing Melbourne's excellent coffee with dollops of gooey white chocolate. Yum!
Of course everyone would tell you that is the point of travelling and living abroad, to experience all these new and different things. What they don't tell you is that you then have to leave these things behind, and no matter how hard you try you can't find anything quite like it anywhere else. Whenever I have a mocha in Canada I can't help but think 'this isn't bad, but its no Max Brenners...'
Anyway that little rant did serve a purpose. One of the key differences about where you grew up is that there are lots of things you miss that you don't even realise. When I was back I noticed all kinds of things that I can't get elsewhere (without considerable effort and investment at least). Here's a good example - flavours of crisps! In the Uk there are all kinds of flavours of crisps that just don't exist abroad. I sat and had a pint and some prawn cocktail crisps in my local and found myself wishing I could do the same in Canada. I'd never sat in a pub in Canada and thought 'you know what I could do with now, some prawn cocktail crisps' but I'm fairly certain that's exactly what will happen the next time I settle down to a pint and a packet of bog standard salt and vinegar. The same can be said of baked beans, which are a bit of a staple of mine, which never taste quite the same abroad. One plate of beans of toast back in Blighty reminded me what I was missing.
One other thing you just can't replicate is the people. I was lucky enough to spend Sunday in a pub beer garden down in London, relaxing with several good friends. The garden was positively heaving with people, it was as if every person in Clapham took a look at the weather report and said, 'right, sod what I had planned to do today, lets just go find a nice beer garden!' In Australia or Canada, where admittedly the weather is warmer slightly more often, you just don't find that same enthusiasm for the fleeting sunshine. Its funny because it is a feeling I still struggle to shake, I'm continually fighting the urge to run outside when the sun comes out, despite the fact that I know full well it will likely be just as hot for the whole rest of summer.
One other amusing side effect of my travels is my very messed up accent. It truly is a mongrel now, interspersed with multiple cliches from different places. I feel my British twang benefits greatly from the inclusion of the occasional 'no worries' or 'eh'. Amusingly my accent gets stronger whenever I visit home, leading to at least a week of confusion where my better half only understands half of what I'm saying until my accent 'normalises' again.
So my trip was short but it did make me realise that I do still love lots of things about England and no matter how long I live abroad there will always be a part of me that hankers for sunshine, decent beans on toast and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps! You can take the boy out of England...
P.S. In case you were wondering, here are a few of my favourite things:
Australia: Tim Tams, Coopers, Max Brenners, decent coffee, sunshine
Canada: Iced Cinnamon buns, Timmys hot chocolate, Kraft dinner, proper seasons
England: Beans, Prawn cocktail crisps, Custard creams, PG Tips, Binge drinking!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
My first round of Golf
Let me get one thing straight - up until recently I was with Winston Churchill - who famously said that Golf was a good way to ruin a nice walk. Of course I wasn't really basing this off any kind of proper experience of golf, except perhaps the occasional trip to the driving range or a crazy golf course. Still the idea of hitting a small white ball with a stick, and then chasing after it and repeating the process, didn't exactly appeal.
Bearing all of this in mind it was with a certain sense of trepidation that I was recently dragged along for my first ever round of golf. Thanks to an upcoming wedding I have a friends and family golf tournament to attend, and so in a vain attempt to not utterly suck in front of a large group of people I know, I figured it would be a good idea to get in some practice. My GF and her parents were kind enough (and patient enough!) to join me in the popping of my golf cherry.
The first major lesson I learned occurred about ten seconds after our round had started. Up until then my criteria of driving a golf ball (at the driving range) was to hit it as far as possible. There was no mention of aiming or direction, I purely wailed on the ball like Happy Gilmore and I was happy when it went 200 yards, regardless if it was 200 yards diagonally right! When I stepped up to the tee of the first hole I realised driving was a tad more nuanced in the real game, due mainly to the frickin huge forest off to the right. To make matters worse the designers of the golf course thought it would be a good idea to put the first tee right next to the club house. Now I'm sure that's very helpful for the old folk who don't want to have to ride their golf carts very far to get started, but its a tad intimidating for new people, who are stuck with the entire club house watching. To show me how it was done, my GF's Dad stepped up and fired his shot down the fairway like an arrow. Then it was my turn.
Another thing I learned about golf is that it is surprisingly complicated when you are trying to do it properly. It seems that every single part of your body has a place it is supposed to be at any given point. I ended up with a mile long checklist to go through every time I stepped up to the tee:
Feet moved back to catch the ball on my 'upswing'? - Check
Left arm straight as I draw it back? - Check
Head held still like its 'nailed in place'? - Check
Wrist cocked at 90 degrees - Check
Weight shifted to back leg - Check
And so on!
None of this felt at all natural, I probably looked like a puppet who had a few strings cut, but I was assured it would get easier with practice. So I would run through my checklist and just like when I try going grocery shopping without a list I'd always forget something. It might have been the tiniest thing, but somehow it would then decimate my entire swing (I guess its the same with shopping, forget the eggs and your cake is going nowhere!). I'd move my head a fraction of an inch on the follow through and the result would be me 'topping' the ball and driving it all of 10 ft. Or I would miss the ball entirely, which obviously I would classify as just another 'practice swing'.
Anyway I stepped up to the first hole tee, I went through my mental checklist and I swung like my life depended on it. I made perfect contact with the ball and it sailed through the air like a bullet....diagonally off to the right. It landed in grass so thick you could hide dinosaurs in it. Off I went to try and find the bloody thing.
After some searching I managed to find the ball, which was nestled in grass that was up to my arse. I was advised on club selection (I was disappointed to find there was no club with a lawnmower attached) and told to aim 'in front of the ball'. Personally I was wondering what lazy bastard mowed their lawn, just a few metres off to the left the grass was barely a centimetre high, and yet here it was like the bloody Amazon. Couldn't the guy be arsed to finish off the rest? (I was later informed that the golf course does this on purpose. It's a way to punish the new guys apparently - as if it isn't already hard enough!) So I stepped up to my ball and went through my checklist again and swung like a blind woodsman, and I made surprisingly good contact with the ball....which sailed diagonally left across the fairway and into the thick grass on the other side. At least I'd made the next beginners life slightly easier, my practice hacking and my shot had cleared out a nice patch for the next newbie that landed in the rough. If I had to play this hole a few more times I could probably clear most of the long grass out...
I repeated this process a few more times, zig zagging my way down the fairway until I was told that I was within 'putting distance' of the green. I was informed that since I wasn't quite on the green I should give it a bit of welly to get it through the slow grass, so that is what I did. Apparently my definition of 'welly' was not quite aligned with everyone else's, I clubbed the ball so hard it sailed right across the green and into the long grass on the other side. This scared me enough to ensure that my next several shots were wimpily soft, the end result being that my ball limped its way gradually towards the hole. I didn't bother to count my shots, but it's safe to say I was definitely over par.
This trend continued for the next few holes, with me driving it off in some direction other than straight, until of course the one exception when the fairway curved off to the right, which was the only case of my drive annoyingly being perfectly straight. I had a bit of an incident with a pitching wedge, where I somewhat misjudged the power required to get me to the green, and put the ball about twenty feet into the woods behind the green. That was to be the first of the seven balls I lost throughout the nine holes. The strange thing is I was actually having a lot of fun, I knew that I sucked and therefore I felt no frustration when I put the ball into the woods/swamp/car park.
At some point towards the end of our round I had a bit of a eureka moment. I guess the fact that I was hitting 10+ shots on every hole meant that statistically I was bound to hit a decent shot eventually, but even so when I did it felt great. I was a decent distance from the green, I tried to judge it and I swung, and to my great surprise the ball went where I was aiming and landed perfectly on the green. I strutted towards it like Tiger frickin Woods, thinking I was now officially hot sh*t. Then I missed the putt, not once, not twice but three times. But still it was a great feeling while it lasted.
At the end of nine holes I was ready to call it a day, (I was easily as tired as the guys doing 18 holes due to the fact I had taken at least as many swings as they had!) but the important thing was that I was ready to do it again. In fact I'd go so far as to say I'm looking forwards to the tournament now. It's strange how something that sounds so boring can actually be a lot of fun, I guess its an important lesson - don't knock something until you've tried it. Now I'm going to head to the driving range, to see if I can hit the damn ball straight for a change...
Bearing all of this in mind it was with a certain sense of trepidation that I was recently dragged along for my first ever round of golf. Thanks to an upcoming wedding I have a friends and family golf tournament to attend, and so in a vain attempt to not utterly suck in front of a large group of people I know, I figured it would be a good idea to get in some practice. My GF and her parents were kind enough (and patient enough!) to join me in the popping of my golf cherry.
The first major lesson I learned occurred about ten seconds after our round had started. Up until then my criteria of driving a golf ball (at the driving range) was to hit it as far as possible. There was no mention of aiming or direction, I purely wailed on the ball like Happy Gilmore and I was happy when it went 200 yards, regardless if it was 200 yards diagonally right! When I stepped up to the tee of the first hole I realised driving was a tad more nuanced in the real game, due mainly to the frickin huge forest off to the right. To make matters worse the designers of the golf course thought it would be a good idea to put the first tee right next to the club house. Now I'm sure that's very helpful for the old folk who don't want to have to ride their golf carts very far to get started, but its a tad intimidating for new people, who are stuck with the entire club house watching. To show me how it was done, my GF's Dad stepped up and fired his shot down the fairway like an arrow. Then it was my turn.
Another thing I learned about golf is that it is surprisingly complicated when you are trying to do it properly. It seems that every single part of your body has a place it is supposed to be at any given point. I ended up with a mile long checklist to go through every time I stepped up to the tee:
Feet moved back to catch the ball on my 'upswing'? - Check
Left arm straight as I draw it back? - Check
Head held still like its 'nailed in place'? - Check
Wrist cocked at 90 degrees - Check
Weight shifted to back leg - Check
And so on!
None of this felt at all natural, I probably looked like a puppet who had a few strings cut, but I was assured it would get easier with practice. So I would run through my checklist and just like when I try going grocery shopping without a list I'd always forget something. It might have been the tiniest thing, but somehow it would then decimate my entire swing (I guess its the same with shopping, forget the eggs and your cake is going nowhere!). I'd move my head a fraction of an inch on the follow through and the result would be me 'topping' the ball and driving it all of 10 ft. Or I would miss the ball entirely, which obviously I would classify as just another 'practice swing'.
Anyway I stepped up to the first hole tee, I went through my mental checklist and I swung like my life depended on it. I made perfect contact with the ball and it sailed through the air like a bullet....diagonally off to the right. It landed in grass so thick you could hide dinosaurs in it. Off I went to try and find the bloody thing.
After some searching I managed to find the ball, which was nestled in grass that was up to my arse. I was advised on club selection (I was disappointed to find there was no club with a lawnmower attached) and told to aim 'in front of the ball'. Personally I was wondering what lazy bastard mowed their lawn, just a few metres off to the left the grass was barely a centimetre high, and yet here it was like the bloody Amazon. Couldn't the guy be arsed to finish off the rest? (I was later informed that the golf course does this on purpose. It's a way to punish the new guys apparently - as if it isn't already hard enough!) So I stepped up to my ball and went through my checklist again and swung like a blind woodsman, and I made surprisingly good contact with the ball....which sailed diagonally left across the fairway and into the thick grass on the other side. At least I'd made the next beginners life slightly easier, my practice hacking and my shot had cleared out a nice patch for the next newbie that landed in the rough. If I had to play this hole a few more times I could probably clear most of the long grass out...
I repeated this process a few more times, zig zagging my way down the fairway until I was told that I was within 'putting distance' of the green. I was informed that since I wasn't quite on the green I should give it a bit of welly to get it through the slow grass, so that is what I did. Apparently my definition of 'welly' was not quite aligned with everyone else's, I clubbed the ball so hard it sailed right across the green and into the long grass on the other side. This scared me enough to ensure that my next several shots were wimpily soft, the end result being that my ball limped its way gradually towards the hole. I didn't bother to count my shots, but it's safe to say I was definitely over par.
This trend continued for the next few holes, with me driving it off in some direction other than straight, until of course the one exception when the fairway curved off to the right, which was the only case of my drive annoyingly being perfectly straight. I had a bit of an incident with a pitching wedge, where I somewhat misjudged the power required to get me to the green, and put the ball about twenty feet into the woods behind the green. That was to be the first of the seven balls I lost throughout the nine holes. The strange thing is I was actually having a lot of fun, I knew that I sucked and therefore I felt no frustration when I put the ball into the woods/swamp/car park.
At some point towards the end of our round I had a bit of a eureka moment. I guess the fact that I was hitting 10+ shots on every hole meant that statistically I was bound to hit a decent shot eventually, but even so when I did it felt great. I was a decent distance from the green, I tried to judge it and I swung, and to my great surprise the ball went where I was aiming and landed perfectly on the green. I strutted towards it like Tiger frickin Woods, thinking I was now officially hot sh*t. Then I missed the putt, not once, not twice but three times. But still it was a great feeling while it lasted.
At the end of nine holes I was ready to call it a day, (I was easily as tired as the guys doing 18 holes due to the fact I had taken at least as many swings as they had!) but the important thing was that I was ready to do it again. In fact I'd go so far as to say I'm looking forwards to the tournament now. It's strange how something that sounds so boring can actually be a lot of fun, I guess its an important lesson - don't knock something until you've tried it. Now I'm going to head to the driving range, to see if I can hit the damn ball straight for a change...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
My Gaming Evolution
Those of you that know me are aware that I've always had a strong interest in gaming. I've been entertaining myself with video games for the last 15 years at least, but it wasn't until recently that I've noticed something of a fundamental shift in my gaming habits.
When I was a young lad I got a Sega Master system for my birthday one year. This was super exciting for me and I played it religiously, saving up any money I received for Easter, Birthdays or Christmas to buy new games. Back then I would only get a new game every 2 or 3 months, and I'd play them to death. The Master System soon became a Mega Drive, then a Saturn, a Dreamcast, an N64, a Gamecube an Xbox and finally a 360 (actually i'm on my third 360 - I must stop moving countries!). Despite considering myself an open minded individual, I am apparently a raging fanboy, as I have never been able to convince myself to buy a Playstation. Perhaps if Sony would just drop the price of the PS3, I'd be tempted...
As I reached my teenage years my cousin and I got into competitive gaming - against each other. We started off with Mortal Kombat 2, him as Sub Zero and me as Reptile, and we would forgo sleep to play hundreds of matches in a single night. I would generally build up a winning streak, but he was always quicker than me at pressing up+punch when the guy popped up at the bottom & said 'TOASTY' - then off he would go to fight Smoke and my winning streak would be reset - grrr.
We eventually graduated to 3d fighting games. We were both far too obsessed with Soul Caliber on the Dreamcast. Mention Maxi's roundhouse kick to my cousin and his fingers still twitch involuntarily, trying to press duck on an invisible controller. He would keep me at a distance with Kilik and he got particularly good at parrying my attacks when I finally got close, forcing me to rely on cheap tactics to win, such as using the aforementioned roundhouse kick to wing him off the edge of the stage moments before he killed me :)
We also played Virtual On, which to this day is one of my favourite games, but seeing as only about five people in the world have ever played it I won't go on about it. If you have an Xbox I highly recommend downloading the recently released Virtual On update from Xbox Live - you won't be disappointed.
Anyway I'm getting distracted. My point is that I was definitely what most people would consider a hardcore gamer going to university. Then I met the squash bunch and they introduced me to a new type of games - drinking games, and I spent all of my money on booze and cheap curry. I hardly picked up a controller for 3 years. I thought for a while that it was purely a matter of cash that was preventing me from continuing with my previous gaming habits, and as soon as I had the time and money again I would go back to my old hardcore gaming ways. I was wrong.
As I got a job and joined the 'grown up' world, I noticed that I don't have the time to play games like I used to. What's worse, the games don't seem the same to me now that I can buy them whenever I like. It's for this exact reason that I don't pirate games, I just don't treasure something unless it has some personal value, and that leads to a lack of interest. Anyway now that I can buy 20+ games in a year, I just don't feel the same attachment to them. This has fundamentally changed the way I play them, where I used to play games obsessively until I had completed every possible facet (Goldeneye I'm looking at you!) nowadays I just want to get through the single player campaign without too much hassle. I certainly still enjoy it, it is simply that I'm not as patient as I used to be. Nowadays when I read a review that says unfortunately the single player campaign only lasts 7 or 8 hours I found myself thinking Great! I know that I might actually finish it, and as long as I enjoy that 8 hours to me it's money well spent. Alternatively when I look at a game like Fallout 3, where I'm being asked to invest 40+ hours, I simply cannot bring myself to do it.
This shift has also drastically affected the way that I play games. Instead of spending hours in front of the TV I find that the majority of my gaming is now done whilst I'm travelling - to fill the many hours of 'downtime'. Because of this I'm favouring more casual games, something that I can pick up and play for 10 minutes at a time instead of investing hours and hours. My new favourite game is Azkend on the iPhone, which is a simple but strangely satisfying 'match three' style game. I've already clocked several hours playing it, despite the fact that I've only had it a couple of weeks and have already completed it. It's so simple it really shouldn't be as fun as it is, but every time I have 5 minutes to kill I find myself booting it up.
So after all these years, I don't think I can rightfully call myself a hardcore gamer any more. I used to think calling someone a casual gamer was a slur, putting them in the same category as bored housewives playing bejewelled or Grandmas playing Wii Sports, but now I have to accept that I'm one of them. Every now and again my old hardcore self will make an appearance (I still hate not completing a game - Mysteria on the Saturn haunts my nightmares to this day for that very reason - damn you impossibly hard last level!) but the rest of the time I'm just a casual gamer. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to play a quick game of Azkend :)
When I was a young lad I got a Sega Master system for my birthday one year. This was super exciting for me and I played it religiously, saving up any money I received for Easter, Birthdays or Christmas to buy new games. Back then I would only get a new game every 2 or 3 months, and I'd play them to death. The Master System soon became a Mega Drive, then a Saturn, a Dreamcast, an N64, a Gamecube an Xbox and finally a 360 (actually i'm on my third 360 - I must stop moving countries!). Despite considering myself an open minded individual, I am apparently a raging fanboy, as I have never been able to convince myself to buy a Playstation. Perhaps if Sony would just drop the price of the PS3, I'd be tempted...
As I reached my teenage years my cousin and I got into competitive gaming - against each other. We started off with Mortal Kombat 2, him as Sub Zero and me as Reptile, and we would forgo sleep to play hundreds of matches in a single night. I would generally build up a winning streak, but he was always quicker than me at pressing up+punch when the guy popped up at the bottom & said 'TOASTY' - then off he would go to fight Smoke and my winning streak would be reset - grrr.
We eventually graduated to 3d fighting games. We were both far too obsessed with Soul Caliber on the Dreamcast. Mention Maxi's roundhouse kick to my cousin and his fingers still twitch involuntarily, trying to press duck on an invisible controller. He would keep me at a distance with Kilik and he got particularly good at parrying my attacks when I finally got close, forcing me to rely on cheap tactics to win, such as using the aforementioned roundhouse kick to wing him off the edge of the stage moments before he killed me :)
We also played Virtual On, which to this day is one of my favourite games, but seeing as only about five people in the world have ever played it I won't go on about it. If you have an Xbox I highly recommend downloading the recently released Virtual On update from Xbox Live - you won't be disappointed.
Anyway I'm getting distracted. My point is that I was definitely what most people would consider a hardcore gamer going to university. Then I met the squash bunch and they introduced me to a new type of games - drinking games, and I spent all of my money on booze and cheap curry. I hardly picked up a controller for 3 years. I thought for a while that it was purely a matter of cash that was preventing me from continuing with my previous gaming habits, and as soon as I had the time and money again I would go back to my old hardcore gaming ways. I was wrong.
As I got a job and joined the 'grown up' world, I noticed that I don't have the time to play games like I used to. What's worse, the games don't seem the same to me now that I can buy them whenever I like. It's for this exact reason that I don't pirate games, I just don't treasure something unless it has some personal value, and that leads to a lack of interest. Anyway now that I can buy 20+ games in a year, I just don't feel the same attachment to them. This has fundamentally changed the way I play them, where I used to play games obsessively until I had completed every possible facet (Goldeneye I'm looking at you!) nowadays I just want to get through the single player campaign without too much hassle. I certainly still enjoy it, it is simply that I'm not as patient as I used to be. Nowadays when I read a review that says unfortunately the single player campaign only lasts 7 or 8 hours I found myself thinking Great! I know that I might actually finish it, and as long as I enjoy that 8 hours to me it's money well spent. Alternatively when I look at a game like Fallout 3, where I'm being asked to invest 40+ hours, I simply cannot bring myself to do it.
This shift has also drastically affected the way that I play games. Instead of spending hours in front of the TV I find that the majority of my gaming is now done whilst I'm travelling - to fill the many hours of 'downtime'. Because of this I'm favouring more casual games, something that I can pick up and play for 10 minutes at a time instead of investing hours and hours. My new favourite game is Azkend on the iPhone, which is a simple but strangely satisfying 'match three' style game. I've already clocked several hours playing it, despite the fact that I've only had it a couple of weeks and have already completed it. It's so simple it really shouldn't be as fun as it is, but every time I have 5 minutes to kill I find myself booting it up.
So after all these years, I don't think I can rightfully call myself a hardcore gamer any more. I used to think calling someone a casual gamer was a slur, putting them in the same category as bored housewives playing bejewelled or Grandmas playing Wii Sports, but now I have to accept that I'm one of them. Every now and again my old hardcore self will make an appearance (I still hate not completing a game - Mysteria on the Saturn haunts my nightmares to this day for that very reason - damn you impossibly hard last level!) but the rest of the time I'm just a casual gamer. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to play a quick game of Azkend :)
Friday, May 8, 2009
Scottish Nana
This week has been a really tough one for my family and I, as some of you may know my Scottish Nana has been extremely sick and unfortunately she passed away yesterday. I'm not going to talk about the rollercoaster of illness and recovery she went through, but instead I wanted to share some of my memories of her with all of you.
My Dad's side of the family is Scottish and moved to England when my Dad was still a teenager. This caused much confusion for me as a child as Scottish Nana & Grandad, as their name suggests, both had thick Scottish accents. It took me a little while to fully understand them, although my Nana was always very softly spoken. She never had a bad word to say about anyone and she always showed a real interest in the lives of both her children and her grandchildren. My biggest regret is that she never got to meet Lauren, whom I know she would have loved immensely.
As a kid we used to love visiting Scottish Nana as she was always keen to spoil us rotten with biscuits and pop. Many a time she would bring out a plate of assorted biscuits and tell my sister and I to help ourselves. We would hungrily eye this mountain of goodies until we caught Mum's eye, and she would give us the look that said, 'take more than two and you're in trouble.' We would try and restrain ourselves as much as possible, but Nana would play devils advocate and bring the tray around, making sure we always ended up having four or five. Nana was just like that, she was kind and generous to a tee and would always do whatever she could to make everyone else happy.
She was a smart cookie too. Watching Countdown with Nana was a particular treat, she would always make words at least as long as the contestants and often longer. You could forget about beating her at scrabble, she'd often let you get a few points ahead before casually laying a xylophone across the triple word score tile to innocently decimate your score. She enjoyed these simple pleasures and the time she spent with family. Nana was never happier than when the whole family descended on her house for Birthdays or Christmas. In the wheel of our family she was most definitely the hub, she brought everyone together and made every event an enjoyable one.
One other thing that has to be noted, she could drink with the best of them! My cousin and I once tried to match her drink for drink in our impressionable teenage years, and didn't even come close. She had barely even warmed up on the G&T's before we were well and truly wasted. What we failed to realise until later was that behind her gentle appearances she was tough as nails, a real fighter, and she showed that right up until the end. In essence she was a true Scottish woman, kind and loving tempered with tenacity and determination.
Scottish Nana, you will truly be missed, and our families wheel will not be the same without you at its centre.
My Dad's side of the family is Scottish and moved to England when my Dad was still a teenager. This caused much confusion for me as a child as Scottish Nana & Grandad, as their name suggests, both had thick Scottish accents. It took me a little while to fully understand them, although my Nana was always very softly spoken. She never had a bad word to say about anyone and she always showed a real interest in the lives of both her children and her grandchildren. My biggest regret is that she never got to meet Lauren, whom I know she would have loved immensely.
As a kid we used to love visiting Scottish Nana as she was always keen to spoil us rotten with biscuits and pop. Many a time she would bring out a plate of assorted biscuits and tell my sister and I to help ourselves. We would hungrily eye this mountain of goodies until we caught Mum's eye, and she would give us the look that said, 'take more than two and you're in trouble.' We would try and restrain ourselves as much as possible, but Nana would play devils advocate and bring the tray around, making sure we always ended up having four or five. Nana was just like that, she was kind and generous to a tee and would always do whatever she could to make everyone else happy.
She was a smart cookie too. Watching Countdown with Nana was a particular treat, she would always make words at least as long as the contestants and often longer. You could forget about beating her at scrabble, she'd often let you get a few points ahead before casually laying a xylophone across the triple word score tile to innocently decimate your score. She enjoyed these simple pleasures and the time she spent with family. Nana was never happier than when the whole family descended on her house for Birthdays or Christmas. In the wheel of our family she was most definitely the hub, she brought everyone together and made every event an enjoyable one.
One other thing that has to be noted, she could drink with the best of them! My cousin and I once tried to match her drink for drink in our impressionable teenage years, and didn't even come close. She had barely even warmed up on the G&T's before we were well and truly wasted. What we failed to realise until later was that behind her gentle appearances she was tough as nails, a real fighter, and she showed that right up until the end. In essence she was a true Scottish woman, kind and loving tempered with tenacity and determination.
Scottish Nana, you will truly be missed, and our families wheel will not be the same without you at its centre.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
