Another wedding...

I'm off to another wedding tomorrow. In Newcastle. One of my first friends from St Andrews. It should, and will, be awesome. I don't think I'm going to take as many photos though. It's taken me 2 1/2 weeks to get all the Ireland ones up, after all.

I've renamed this post for a few reasons: 1) It's been updated 2) It wasn't just pictures, as the previous title suggested 3) Can't remember

I wrote yesterday, and it felt incredible. I built characters and found out stuff about my characters that I hadn't thought of before as fingers hit keys and words kept coming. It excited and frustrated me at the same time... like in Force 10 from Navarone when they blow up the dam and at first nothing happens; a few cracks here and there and a dribble of water, but no mad rush. I'm frustrated at the lack of mad rush. But it's good trickle at the moment and it felt so good to overcome some of the various mental blocks that had been plaguing me that the trickles are great and bring on the dam bursting. Sadly today was an errand day, lacking in those large chunks of time needed to bring about dam-bursting literature, so I've been taking notes when I get the chance instead.

Enough babbling... but it's so great. Anyway. Last night after feeling very accomplished I met some old friends for dinner in Soho - nice fish restaurant: had lobster tails, which I LOVE. And just generally caught up with the Hedges brothers (Jamie & Blair) and Hignett. Most of us will be at the wedding in Newcastle this weekend but it was nice to chat without having a massive wedding going on in the background.

One of my errands today was picking up some pics from the developers, including a roll that I'd thought I'd lost from Ireland, and I'm very glad I found. Sadly I was out of focus for my only really cool "team" photo, something I'm really pissed off about. In any case, here're a bunch of pics from all over the place:
IrelandThe out-of-focus team pic. From left to right: James Wicken, Georgie Wicken, Andrew Hendry, Matt Wicken, James Miller, Suman Wicken & Luke Potter. Curse my lack of focus skills. Brilliant mates to travel with, though, and they'll always be in-focus to me (cue cheesy vomit mime).

We thought these were the Skelligs, but we were mistaken. I like this picture though. I have no idea what the islands are called, either. Answers in comments.

The southern coast of the Ring of Kerry. Quite pretty, really. It's cool being able to watch the weather in another county (across the water, those hills in the rain, that's County Cork) and realise that either you've just had that weather, are about to have that weather, or some totally different weather's about to hit you.
St AndrewsLow tide always gives some cool texture opportunities. On the left is the big pool outside the aquarium. I don't quite "get" black & white yet, but I really like the photos on this roll - almost half of them are ok, which is good for me. That said, I didn't actually attempt to take pictures of people. So maybe I was cheating a bit.

The infamous West Sands on a crowded Sunday. It was unbelievably cold - those hills and the forest obscured in the distance? That's an ice mist. Yet everyone was out kiting, playing football, walking the dog and allsorts. Lunacy, but admirable lunacy.

The harbour from the balcony of my old flat. Ice mist in the hills. I really do miss St Andrews, and especially this flat. But I'm glad I left.
LondonHammersmith Bridge. I took this on my way to the station to get the tube to get the train to get up to St Andrews.

This is the river by my house at low tide. The actual print for this scan is overexposed. This is one of a set of three, all of which have much higher contrast and saturation on the prints. This is the only digital one that seems to have balance. I almost know what I'm talking about, but not quite.

This is a car driving in front of my house at high tide. I expected it to flood. It didn't - I'm really chuffed I got this picture - I think it's wicked. I don't know why this hippy van has been parked outside for so long but I'm glad it got away from tidal ravages when it did.

I babble too much about my pictures. It's because I'm not used to them and I don't know what I'm doing enough to chat about apeture and shutter speeds and other posh things. I disappoint myself more often than I please myself. Being more comfortable with words, I feel better babbling; attempting to explain. I don't know if it works or if it's just nonsense. If it seems arrogant, me trying to explain, it's not meant to be. It's a case of me not understanding the medium yet, not knowing what is good and what's rubbish, and therefore trying to justify my decisions in posting them. I put up what I like. There. That was easy. I should just leave it at that. But I probably won't.

Ireland SLR pics. And some other things as well.

These I've mulled over for awhile... bore my vast (not) readership with more pics from Ireland? Well, I really like these. I'm proud of them, darnit, so you'll just have to grin and bear it or wait until I post another nonsense about British Gas or frog-gigging or something.

This is Luke P in front of the parish church in Castletownsend. It was empty on All Soul's Day, and I couldn't work out why, until I discovered it of Church of Ireland as opposed to Roman Catholic.

The harbour at Castletownsend, the morning we left - I was taking pictures while everyone tidied the flat. Oops.
I really like this - even though the colours aren't that vivid, you have the stunning Ring of Kerry coastline in the background, and James Wicken returning from a quick pee in the foreground. Nice juxtaposition.

This was just lucky - and I'm sure there's something wrong with it because I think I like it too much for it to be as good or nice as I think it is. If you spot what's wrong with it, don't tell me.

A close up of the Skelligs - they're really jaggedy, don't you think? Norman Ackroyd RA, one of my favourite print artists, has done some really spectacular studies of these, like this one.

Looking out towards the Skelligs from Bray Head (odd name, that). Should I have risked life and limb and stood right out on that bit of turf, high above the pounding surf and very, very sharp rocks, just to get a cleaner shot? No. Just a hobby guys. There's no one standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square with their shopping. Anyway, I still like the shot. I even like the foreground. So there.

In other news, I think I have a job. Temporary, but it means that I'll have some form of income. I'll know more when the 'rents return.

Oh, and go buy the The Best of the Beta Band Music double CD. Their music is awesome and the extra CD, live at Shepherd's Bush from their farewell tour, is incredible.

Raisins, movies, shop-cricket & frog-gigging... it all adds up to a wonderful and bizarre weekend.

So, back in St Andrews. Was it weird? Shouldn't I be packing? Am I really drinking Dom Perignon '96 while I type this first sentence? Well, the answer is yes to those last two questions. I should be packing, and I do have a glass of seriously fine champagne at my side. But in the misleading spirit of blog entries, it will not be at my side throughout. In fact, it is a sad truth that this first paragraph will be the only one accompanied by bubbly, and that the rest will most likely be written on a train where I mull over the truths I uncovered over the weekend. Or try to recover from my hangover. Or both. Probably both.

I must say though, while I still have bubbly, the following things:

I love St Andrews

Gayden Metcalfe is a total fucking legend.

Bad Santa is a film of genius.

Shop-cricket is the greatest sport of the 21st century.

Hope is not lost.

The new Harry Potter is the best yet (film, not book).

Ben Murray is the world's best shop-cricketer.

These make little sense now but will be explained, not necessarily in order, throughout the course of this post. I just needed to get it out while I still had the bubbly. I'm writing this at 119am. The rest will be written later in the day. Once I finish packing. I need to pack. Because I'm going home tomorrow. It is odd to leave home to go home.

It's now 10 to 11am. I'm on the train and have been tring to sleep but keep waking myself up snoring. Which can't be very pleasant for the people around me, and it is a busy train. I'm also in the "quiet" coach. Which means that while infuriating American tourists speak at inconsiderate volume I can't put my headphones on and drown them out with my iPod. It's one of the more shallow levels of hell, for sure, but continued exposure is indeed torture. I'm surprised the US government isn't using it on terror suspects. Or maybe they are - maybe everyone in the misnamed quiet coach is a terror suspect and the babbling tourists are undercover CIA, chatting inanely about their holiday until someone in the carriage, unable to take their continued questioning of the car rental system, confesses to every terrorist act commited on every continent for the last 25 years. If they keep it up, they will have a queue of confessors.

So, good weekend really. Good enough to need more sleep on the train. Friday night was dinner at the Seafood Restaurant in St Monans, which was awesome. Lots of good food and good wine, followed by pubs. Stevie Mac at Bridges then made the most dreadful cocktails in the history of the world. From the look of it, there were about ten shots of vodka, five tequila & two blue bols topped up with pineapple juice and shaken maniacally. It was then poured into 3 waiting glasses and emerged the colour of a radioactive slush puppy. We were informed it was called a legwarmer. We responded that it would be better described as a stomach churner. Put off by that we switched to Guinness and went home light-footed and very drunk.

I went for a run again in the morning.

Saturday was more effort finding everyone I needed to catch up with. In this case it was the lovely Louisa, who always makes me smile. She's off to Australia today. Very exciting. We had a pizza for lunch and caught up on the gossip.

Then an incredible rugby match - New Zealand vs. England. It's a shame England didn't win but what an awesome game. All there agreed it was one of the greatest games of rugby anyone had ever seen. Sadly Ireland vs. Australia wasn't quite as fun. Somethings missing from Ireland and it's O'Driscoll. They just weren't as exciting as they have been in the past 4 years. It was a shame. Of course, while watching loads of rugby one drinks lots of beer. So on our way again we ordered food and more beer, culminating in Guinness accompanied by chips n' mayo. Too much mayo. Ben and I needed whisky to clean our systems, so we went and bothered Andy's lovely ex, Kirsten, at the Russell Hotel. This was great fun, probably moreso for Ben and I than Kirsten, as she was trying to work and we were trying to make her laugh.

So we left and bought beer and rented Bad Santa, starring Billy Bob Thornton. This is not a movie for the easiliy offended. But it is one of the funniest films I've seen in a very long time. Dark, cynical and miserable, this is the greatest movie to watch if you're getting fed up with Christmas, or just one of those people who hates how early the decorations go up. You have to see it. It is also life-affirming, not because it has a heart-warming, life-affirming message. Oh God, no. But because it shows you a bunch morally retarded reprobates whose lives are so unbelievable dreadful that you can only feel better about how wonderful your life is. Honest. If you watch this movie and think for a second how good they have it, then I weep for you.

Then we went and played darts in the Whey Pat Tavern.

Sunday was Raisin Sunday and for those who don't know, Raisin Sunday is binge drinking raised to a nihilistic art form. A student tradition that has been bastardised into a drinking marathon where the basic premise is that older students (academic parents) get younger students (academic children) drunk. The goals are sex and oblivion in no particular order. In some cases parties start as early as 9 am. I saw someone passed out at noon, having had 17 shots already. Every year I see it I realise I'm maturing when my own great memories are overshadowed by the self-destructive reality of it.

One of my academic sons was up for the weekend and I met him for a pint while he was still some semblance of sober. He'd travelled up for his academic son, my grandson, to get Raisin Revenge on him. Knowing the carnage to follow I retreated for the better part of valour and went to watch Scotland play terrible rugby at Ben's.

After the rugby I needed cheering up. So I went to the new Harry Potter movie. On my own because I am comfortable in my own geekiness to sit in a cinema and watch a movie aimed at an audience 17 years younger than me. And no one else wanted to go with me. It's brilliant. The best of the bunch and I recommend that you reach in, grab hold of the inner child and go along. That said, it's pretty dark, so make sure your inner child isn't easily freaked.

Dinner and shop-cricket followed the film. I've mentioned shop cricket before, but only in passing. Here I even have photos. We even got teams together and scored properly. We had some newcomers to the game, whisky afficionados Rob & Dave. A good hour and a half of intense gaming in a three match test. I barely know what that means but we played two matches and won both, so decided to go to the pub. There were no breakages, in spite of our best efforts. The Italian wines behind the wickets did look a bit worse for the wear to be honest, and closely resembled fallen bowling pins. Both Ben M & the infamous Harry Watkins were on storming form. The photos aren't great quality (taken with the camera on my phone) but I think they get across the general idea. The pub that followed was the Castle Tavern, newly considered cool because of its incredibly cheesy jukebox (I've known this for a long time and have been drinking there for 11 years). It was full of very drunken and quite subdued students. I was expecting rampant snogging and dancing on the tables. That's what it would have been in my day (insert grumpy old man harrumphing here). One of the guys I was with, Ben McLeod, was in first year with me. We worked out that it was our 12th Raisin Sunday. 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 00, 01, 02, 03, 04 & 05. Frightening.

It was here that I bumped into the legendary Gayden Metcalfe, complete with a lynx fur hat and a massive hug. I should explain. Gayden was one of my favourite customers at Luvians. One of the few of the priviledged students that actually possessed depth of character enough to play the social system and have fun with it rather than becoming a slave to it. She parties hard and loves it. It means she's taking a little longer with her degree but I'm hardly one to comment. Anyway, Gayden was telling me about her summer and the sport of frog-gigging. Now, this is pretty surreal. Chatting to an impeccably decked out lady, complete with fur hat, surrounded by drunkards in Diesel, Armani, Prada & Pink, in one of the sleaziest pubs in town, and she's describing frog-gigging. Because I'll be honest, I hadn't a fucking clue what frog-gigging was. So she told me in her southern belle twang. You get a canoe and you go out into the swamp at night with a spotlight (or in her case, flashlight). It's a canoe with an outboard motor, ultra swamphick chic. You have a big spear and you listen for frogs. They make that bass ribbit noise apparently, you keep a sharp eye out for alligators. There are lots of those, and they're bigger than the canoe. And their eyes shine red in the flashlight. Which, you know, is scary. Anyway, avoiding alligators, you follow the noise of the frog songs and when you get to the frog you spear it and have frog legs for breakfast. I reckon most of the other girls, and quite a few of the guys, in the pub that night would have stood on the nearest barstool and shrieked castrato had they seen an alligator's eyes glowing red in the night. Or a bullfrog for that matter. So yeah, huge props to Gayden. Made my night, I liked Raisin Sunday again and had hope for my partying successors.

So here I am on the train, a comedy of errors involving overcrowding, too much luggage, muslim clerics in the wrong seats, & loud Americans (who, I swear to God, saw a sheep out the window and screamed "Oh my god, look! It's a SHEEP!!). Now, if you've ever been on the train between Edinburgh and London, you'll know that there are a lot of sheep to be seen. They're pretty ubiquitous to the journey. Everywhere. It makes one think the legendary Graham Greene wrote fantasy, as the title of one his novels is The Quiet American, and I've yet to find one. Myself included. I shut up pretty quick when others are around though, for fear of being guilty by association.

So that's my overbearing, overwordy gibberish about the weekend. There were some downsides, of course. The same as when I used to visit London (as opposed to live there); I couldn't see everyone I wanted to - so to Ellie H and Captain Crawford, my most immense apologies for missing you. And Malia, babe, I'm sorry I didn't get to cook some food for you - I'll make it up to you on the 29th, I promise.

I'm pretty tired. I'm thankful I was organised and actually booked my seats. I want, some day, to drive the top, coastal half of this east coast line with my camera and take photos of the coast as it is stunning. I'm glad heading south is heading home this time. Was St Andrews weird? Yeah, but no moreso than usual.

101!

This is my 101st post. Big dorky geek am I.

Last night I accomplished everything one needs to accomplish when visiting St Andrews:

Massive Balaka - check

Too much to drink - check

Lament how awful students are - check

Lament how awful but attractive students are - check

Lament how not a student anymore - check

Go back to someone's flat for "just the one" - check

Marvel how the barstaff at your local didn't notice you'd been away - check

Breathe immense sigh of relief that you don't live here anymore - check

Sigh with immense regret that you don't live here anymore - check

Remind oneself that the fat, bald almost 30-year-old isn't going to go home with the vacuous, sexy, over-privileged almost 20-year-old. - check

I went for a run this morning to clear head. It worked but it hurt. Try running carrying 3 stone that you shouldn't be and you'll know why. Bleah.

Fine dining tonight. Though it means I have to miss a party for someone I adore at a place that I love. Which is not supposed to be the case, dammit. Poo. Everything in my life should be neatly scheduled so I that don't have to miss the things that I love.

Now, for the ultimate morning-after-back-in-st-andrews-question:

What am I going to do for lunch?

Something cool

I found this today, during my lunch break. It looks very cool.

Another conversation

Little Nagging Voice: Good morning.

Me: Oh no.

LNV: It's your own fault, you know.

Me: Really?

LNV: Yeah, really.

Me: How so?

LNV: It's pretty obvious. And you know how so, because I know how so, and I'm a part of you.

Me: Don't remind me.

LNV: You're not in a very good mood today. And I'm going to start asking questions soon...

Me: Please don't. It's been a long and kind of extended weekend and dealing with questions from my own conciousness makes me feel dizzy.

LNV: A long extended weekend? It's Wednesday. You must've worked real hard last week to earn a long weekend.

Me: Bugger off.

LNV: So when did this weekend actually start?

Me: ...

LNV: Around 18 October, maybe?

Me: I've done loads, keeping the house tidy...

LNV: Jan does that, not you.

Me: Sorting the mail - my folks get a lot of mail.

LNV: That took you an afternoon. Yesterday afternoon, in fact.

Me: Setting the clock.

LNV: This is getting pathetic.

Me: Taking the garbage out.

LNV: Yes, congratulations on not forgetting it this week.

Me: Fuck you.

LNV: So, how's the exercise going? Considering you hate the shape you're in, you'd think you were hammering away at the NordicTrack.

Me: I only did it twice last week - I got sidetracked. And drunk. And I had house guests.

LNV: Dude, you can only manage 15 minutes tops anyway. If you dragged your lazy arse out of bed when you woke up instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, you could have done it without ignoring your guests.

Me: Well, yeah, I suppose, but - I love my bed.

LNV: It's not your bed. It's the guest bed. As soon as the 'rents get back, they're going to throw your arse out back. And do you love your bed more than you hate being fat?

Me: No. But, well, being well-rested is almost as important as being in good shape.

LNV: If you were in good shape, your lazy arse wouldn't need to sleep so much, dipshit. It's not as though you're resting after a hard day's work.

Me: Well, duh.

LNV: Nice comeback. Is that exceptional wit making its way into the novel?

Me: Of course.

LNV: Did you notice my snide remark about lack of hard day's work?

Me: Yes.

LNV: And what work are you supposed to be doing?

Me: Writing.

LNV: And are you doing this work?

Me: You can't give me shit for not being able to write! It's you that's stopping me; whispering in my ear that I'm deluding myself - that I won't be able to get it published, that sooner or later I'll capitulate and crumble and run with my tail between my legs back to Luvians or some other job! And that it would be better to watch a video rather than waste my time trying to write... How dare you give me shit for not writing!

LNV: That's not me.

Me: Of course it's you, you're the voice that nags me.

LNV: There are lots of different voices.

Me: It sounds just like you.

LNV: Well, it's not. That's the Self-Doubt Voice; he works a lot with the Procrastination Voice. They're not popular with the other voices. And of course we all have the same voice, we're all you. Duh.

Me: Very witty. And why am I not comforted by there being lots of you?

LNV: Hey, be grateful we're merely facets of your conciousness; we could could be different personalities, and then you'd be in the loony bin.

Me: Don't look now, but you just comforted me instead of nagging me.

LNV: Oh.

Me: Don't worry too much; it wasn't all that comforting.

LNV: Good. So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?

Me: I'm going to go exercise and then work on my novel.

LNV: Are you sure?

Me: How could I not after this conversation?

LNV: Anything else?

Me: I've got to pack for St Andrews this weekend.

LNV: Can you really afford that?

Me: No.

LNV: Didn't think so.

The Bear Necessities...

Nicknames I have had:

Pumbah (the warthog from the Lion King...)
Rick
Rich
Dr Bré (like Dr Dré, geddit?)
Baloo (my number 1 all-time favourite - named after the bear in the Jungle Book by one of my best mates while dancing around to The Bare Necessities as he was convinced that I was indeed Baloo reincarnated. It may be the best compliment I've ever received)
Patch (shinty name)
The Weird Kid (I was 4, and liked wearing mismatched socks and shoes, ie 1 sneaker & 1 loafer - our downstairs neighbour thought that was weird and named me appropriately - I considered it a title of honour. Well, to be honest, I just thought it was cool - honour doesn't come much into a 4 year-old's emotional spectrum)
Richard the Turd (not a favourite)

Why list these? I got drunk with a friend last night and we got ridiculously nostalgic, toasting our friends far-and-near, and recalling exploits of the past and dancing like lunatics to the terrible tunes of our youth. We demanded an epic reunion and refilled glasses, trying to remember how Whigfield's Saturday Night dance went and laughing that she's now doing gigs in dodgy nightclubs in Peterborough.

It was great, and just what I needed. Sometimes you need to go over what you loved, what you did, all the people you were with to get on with doing new things.

Now when you pick a Pawpaw
Or a prickly pear
And you prick a wrong paw,
Well next time beware

Don't pick a prickly pear by the paw
When you prick a pear try to use the claw
But you don't need to use the claw
When pick a pear of the big Pawpaw

Have I given you a clue?

The bare necessities of life will come to you...

I think I'll go write something else for the rest of the day.

4th time lucky

I failed. Stupidly. What a moron I am. And it wasn't like I drove like an arsehole - I didn't. I just forgot to look when I was reverse parking. Motherfucker. And my examiner was really nice as well. Didn't let on at all that I'd failed only 10 minutes into the goddamned thing. So my plan to drive up to St Andrews this week has changed slightly. I have no idea what I'm going to do. I've spent £400 on lessons in the last 2 months. Really quite annoyed. Aggrevated. Grumpy. FUCK!!!! I want to cry and punch someone and wake up and realise I haven't taken it yet. Just want to have it done with. Serves me right for waiting so long. Another test booked. 14 December. Please let it be over with then.

The reception...

I was mildly sceptical about the reception banquet. I was told that it was mediaeval and that the band played mournful folk ballads. That was not my idea of fun. I was ready to cringe and willing to drink myself to the state where I didn't care. Fortunately, rumours of mournful folk ballads were wildly exaggerated and the whole mediaeval thing was very well done.

Matt took the sword, as the groom was Lord of the Castle for the night. It was a pity there wasn't a dungeon as Andrew Hendry's drunken antics managed to upset anyone that wasn't used to it. Meaning all of Matt's new in-laws.

Luke P's best man speech. Funny and not 100% incriminating. Matt breathed a hefty sigh of relief and then Luke proceeded, during the course of the meal, to tell Matt's mother everything about his misbehaviour during and subsequent to university, including the arrest for drunken golf cart thievery. Wicked.

The first dance. Aw. There was a lot of dancing, and for good reason; the band was awesome!

Adam attempted to keep Andrew from too much trouble, and this is a rare moment where he succumbed to some booze sleep. Sadly it did not last, instead it seemed to reinvigorate him. Looks can be deceiving. Sleeping he looks all peaceful and innocent; awake he's a lunatic drunken pervert. In the nicest way.

The band. They were amazing, the everyone leaping about dancing like mental. So much so that apparently Georgie Wicken broke her jaw. But I've not confirmed that, and my source is famous for his bullshit.

Andrew unleashed. He was stopped before he could finish exposing himself to the wedding party.

All in all it was an amazing wedding. I'm still kind of recovering.