* waking up on New Year's Day in Tokyo replete with heavy head and happy heart. Tom, Finch and I spent the first week of the year hopping on and off the shinkansen, supping our Kahlua Milks and biking it around Hiroshima. We also went to the Ghibli Museum! I'll never find another country as perfect as Japan, and that's fine by me.
* wheezing my way to the top of Kilimanjaro. It wasn't easy but I always feel like a fraud when I say it was hard. I mean it was quite hard but perfectly doable so long as you're i) lucky, ii) stubborn and iii) mobile. Thankfully on this occasion I was armed with the lot and, for my trouble, rewarded with an onslaught of otherworldliness and the most laboriously lovely experience of my life. We stayed in Africa afterwards but while Tanzania's a very interesting country I confess I didn't do a whole lot. Lobster is nice, though. A bit salty.
* graduating. I don't actually consider graduation a highlight so much as a necessary evil. I guess it was quite a nice day though and my family enjoyed it and the list probably wouldn't be complete without it, so er, yeah.
* the last six months of Uni, which were spent almost entirely in the Lansdowne. That's not even an exaggeration. Stepping down from Film Soc presidency was a low, but Preet has done such an ace job as my, uh, successor, I can't stay sad. I think one of my New Year's Resolutions is to stop being so precious about something I no longer have anything to do with, but there is still a part of me that's desperate to vet out the douchebags, like some deluded overthrown dictator.
I probably shouldn't admit that.
* ATP. Oh God, ATP. If there's a formula for a perfect weekend then Barry Hogan knows it and this is what he's done with it. Animal Collective curated but the real stars were Gang Gang, Black Dice, real ale, Group Doueh, new friends, old bands, dancing, breakfast buns and Ariel Pink's 3-second Burger King gig. I would gurgle glass for the opportunity to do it all again.
* Saturday Reading was fun. The festival itself is not cool - I didn't realise it was possible for something that's theoretically quite arty to be so blandly corporate - but the bands made up for it. And by bands, I mostly just mean Pulp, who were and remain the bees knees. Incidentally, my new New Years Resolution is to find and marry Jarvis Cocker.
* the London "holiday", which consisted of seeing Katie, eating Nandos, pub times and wandering around Shoreditch, Soho and places I'm not cool enough for. It doesn't sound like much but it was actually one of the loveliest things I've done all year, though this could just be my unyielding boner for London talking.
* Gigs. I didn't go to as many as I'd have liked, but there were two which would have stuck out any year: Les Savy Fav at the Sound Bar and (deep breath) Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso UFO at the Hare and Hounds. LSF were stunning; I don't know if Tim Harrington putting something on my head and giving me his Corona legitimately constitues a claim-to-fame, but it's certainly a claim-to-, er, ace. AMT were also ridiculously great: loud and crazy and holy shit, THE GUITAR'S ON FIIIIRE!
Aw man.
* while we're on the subject of music, it's been a good year! I was supposed to do a proper top 10 (as in I've spent the year thinking about it) but I left it too late and now I have no time to write it up, though it does exist. If you're interested (and I'm sure you are), you can just message me for it or something. My Gmail account should be able to handle the 12,000 emails I expect to receive.
* Getting some words in the Guardian! I know two people who've managed to write entire articles for the Graun, crushing my woefully inordinate ego somewhat, but I'm still a pleased little pea. Read my stupid pretentious waffle here.
* finally getting a job. I mean, work is not a highlight in anybody's life (unless they go by the name of Taka Imamura) but it's nice that there are people out there who can see that I am capable of doing stuff. Also good: having money again. So much wine.
Ultimately I think I'd describe 2011 as bittersweet. I've had some of the best experiences of my life - absolutely - but, contrary to the above, I've also dealt with what were easily some of the worst. On balance, I guess it's been a learning curve but time will only tell whether I retain anything (unlikely).
My only real resolutions for 2012 are to do "more": have more fun, see more films, hear more music, buy more dresses (wut), write more, smile more, do more, etc.
Oh, and to be living, er, more abroad by this time next year.
Happy 2012, guys!
Saturday 31 December 2011
Films of the Year
Wankiness will ensue. Consider yourself warned.
5
I'll say one thing for Lars von Trier: he's never dull. His musing on the world's end is typically atypical, dotty and daft, but it's also genuinely heartfelt. A film of two halves, Melancholia is both a grim comedy of errors and a surreal exploration of misery and muliebrity. Inevitably it all occurs against the backdrop of, uh, Melancholia, a sinister sister planet-cum-aching great metaphor for human suffering. What's surprising is how real it all feels: after the grand-guignol theatricality of Antichrist, the honesty here is startling. The second hour is defined entirely by a sense of quiet resignation: the realisation that when it all ends, we won't be braving explosions, battling flames or shouting down suits at the bloody Pentagon; we'll be dealing with the relatives. It won't be heroic. It'll be pathetic. And in that, as von Trier illustrates here, really rather beautiful too.
4
This Korean revenge thriller seemed to slip under the radar a little, which is unfortunate because it's kind of brilliant. Byung-hun Lee plays the agent out to avenge his fiancee's murder; Min-sik Choi is the deliciously sadistic killer. It all sounds rather generic (for Korea) but what plays out is a thing of poetry - grim, but prettily and therefore palatably so. As much as I love the unabashedly badass way America does revenge in movies (see #1 and #2), there's something dignified, even honourable about it in Asian cinema and I Saw the Devil is no exception. The film glides by with near-Shakespearean elegance*, then it ends, and in the 2.5 hours between you witness something that is - if you'll excuse the pun - devilishly good.
* admittedly we're talking Titus Andronicus-Shakespearean "elegance", ie: pseudo-intellectual torture porn. But, y'know, amazing.
3
That this only comes in at third place says a lot for my Top 2. Just as its central couple cling to their relationship, Blue Valentine clung to my top spot for much of 2011. Franky I've never seen anything like it. Director Derek Cianfrance spent twelve years on the film and it shows. Honesty - real, documentary-like honesty - is like golddust in the movies, but Cianfrance, Michelle Williams and the perennially brilliant Ryan Gosling absolutely nail it. With the sole exception of Annie Hall (and perhaps Eternal Sunshine), I can't think of another film that captures the minutiae of relationships so well and so candidly. Blue Valentine is the kind of film that actually tells you things about yourself; some of them good, some of them insufferable, but what's great about it is that for all the years of hard graft and re-drafts, it doesn't even feel like it.
2
It's rare that a film will live up to the promise of a good trailer. It's just as rare that a guy as smart as David Fincher is given free rein to make a multi-million dollar blockbuster without compromising on something. But every now and again it happens, and as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo proves, when it does it's absolutely jaw-dropping.
For all the talk of violence - and there's quite a bit - it's actually the humanity of the story that penetrates. The relationship between Rooney Mara's (literal) cyber punk and Daniel Craig's grizzled journo is unexpectedly tender, and gives the film some much-needed heart. One thing I'm a sucker for is a bittersweet ending, and GWTDT delivers one where the punch is compounded by the incongruous sweetness of what went before.
For all the talk of violence - and there's quite a bit - it's actually the humanity of the story that penetrates. The relationship between Rooney Mara's (literal) cyber punk and Daniel Craig's grizzled journo is unexpectedly tender, and gives the film some much-needed heart. One thing I'm a sucker for is a bittersweet ending, and GWTDT delivers one where the punch is compounded by the incongruous sweetness of what went before.
As the eponymous Girl, Mara is excellent, but the world and its dog knows that. Craig though, seems to have been overlooked by almost everybody. Blomkvist isn't a particularly showy role, but Craig imbues him with such warmth and turns a potentially underwritten character into one you really root for. It's great. It's all great, and accordingly the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is pretty much the film of the year.
Well. Sort of.
Well. Sort of.
1
Surprise! I actually think this film has popped up on every End of-Year list in existence. If they're harsh it resides somewhere in the bottom five; if they're kind (and therefore right) it's number 1, because it is, y'know, the best. I wrote about it here but it's worth all reiterating because it's so good. There's nothing else like it but everything is like it. It wears its influences on its silver satin sleeve, and yet it's influential. It's a derivative true original. It's John Hughes and Chan-wook Park. It's synthpop, smashed thighs, elevator kisses, elevator assasinations, silent longing and amateur dental surgery all wrapped up in a hot pink bundle. It's a mood flick with a car chase. It's absolutely ridiculous and absolutely sublime. It's Drive, it's ace and it's my film of the year.
Saturday 8 October 2011
Friday 7 October 2011
Best Pulp songs
A selection of their finest, because I'm on a writing kick and real life is boring.
In keeping with the spirit of things, I've added a prosaically titled 'sex rating' for the horndogs amongst you. As fellow Britpopster Phil Daniels might say, "you love a bit of it."
Sheffield: Sex City: Like the Serge Gainsbourg of South Yorkshire, Jarvis shrieks and purrs his way through eight muggy minutes, as keyboardist Candida rambles on about "the sound of people fucking". Essentially, it's the precursor to Acrylic Afternoons: coated in lust and attuned to the heat in the humdrum, but without all those bits about the tea.
Sex rating: 5/5. It's a bit naughty.
Party Hard: Better than any song with a robot filter has the right to be and forever danceable. While the guitars are reminiscent of Wish-era Cure, the vocal is all Bowie: deep, talky and impossibly alluring. Never a bad thing.
Sex rating: 3/5. It's not exactly spilling over with sauce, but it does feature the line, "he just shed his load on your best party frock." Well, it's raunchier than anything else in the Britpop canon.
Cocaine Socialism: I'm too young to remember the 90s in any detail (it starts and stops at jelly sandals for me), but even I can get behind this acidic critique of New Labour, Cool Britannia and Tony blummin' Blair. Some say its a bit dated, and it's undeniably a product of its time - but then, that's its charm: it captures the zeitgeist and wrings its scaly neck. Nice bit of brass in there too.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless you fancy Tony Blair, in which case it gets a 1.
This is Hardcore: Or as one Last.fm user elegantly put it, "the sound of Jarvis Cocker fucking Britpop to death while Damon Albarn and the Gallagher brothers look on in horror." And what a sleazy, sticky, smoke-stained sound it is.
Sex rating: 5/5. Impossible to pick out just one line: the song is dripping with sex - just desperate, depressing and mostly figurative hate-sex.
O.U (Gone, Gone): Probably the closest Pulp ever came to a conventional pop song: short, sweet and stupidly catchy.
Sex rating: 1/5. "He needed her undressed" is exceptionally tame by Pulp standards.
I Spy: A song that seethes with class-hate, jealousy and the delectable nectar of vengeance. The venom is so palpable you can taste it; the menace so real that it scared the shit out of Luther Vandross when he shared the bill on Jools Holland. So vicious and sinister. So demented and pissed off. So immensely, wickedly delicious, it might even be my favourite Pulp song. God only knows what that says about me.
Sex rating: Anywhere between 0/5 - 5/5, depending on your class status, I guess.
Pink Glove: A charming little ditty about discovering your ex is into leather now, it has so much more heart than it should.
Sex rating: 4/5 for the general subject matter and melodic grunting. If they'd stuck around (any) longer they could have been the band to popularise harmonised moaning - and not in the Smithsian sense.
Mis-Shapes: A rallying cry to the mis-shapes and the misfits, the losers and the nerds, the geeks, the fat one, the "tramp", the boy who got sent to school in a jumper three sizes too big. One for anyone who's ever been laughed at, taunted or slapped around the head by some knob who thought he had it all worked out, when he couldn't even work out his maths. One for all those who are still slightly bitter, and not even ashamed of it. One for us.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless the thought of overthrowing a load of chavs turns you on. On second thought...
Bad Cover Version: It's a bit Christmassy, a bit anthemic and a lot sad. It does make me cry a little, as anything remotely poignant is wont to do.
Sex rating: 1/5. It's just too sad to be sexy.
Common People: Obviously.
Sex rating: 3/5. For all of its class anthem pretensions, it's essentially just a song about somebody wanting a shag, isn't it?
In keeping with the spirit of things, I've added a prosaically titled 'sex rating' for the horndogs amongst you. As fellow Britpopster Phil Daniels might say, "you love a bit of it."
Sheffield: Sex City: Like the Serge Gainsbourg of South Yorkshire, Jarvis shrieks and purrs his way through eight muggy minutes, as keyboardist Candida rambles on about "the sound of people fucking". Essentially, it's the precursor to Acrylic Afternoons: coated in lust and attuned to the heat in the humdrum, but without all those bits about the tea.
Sex rating: 5/5. It's a bit naughty.
Party Hard: Better than any song with a robot filter has the right to be and forever danceable. While the guitars are reminiscent of Wish-era Cure, the vocal is all Bowie: deep, talky and impossibly alluring. Never a bad thing.
Sex rating: 3/5. It's not exactly spilling over with sauce, but it does feature the line, "he just shed his load on your best party frock." Well, it's raunchier than anything else in the Britpop canon.
Cocaine Socialism: I'm too young to remember the 90s in any detail (it starts and stops at jelly sandals for me), but even I can get behind this acidic critique of New Labour, Cool Britannia and Tony blummin' Blair. Some say its a bit dated, and it's undeniably a product of its time - but then, that's its charm: it captures the zeitgeist and wrings its scaly neck. Nice bit of brass in there too.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless you fancy Tony Blair, in which case it gets a 1.
This is Hardcore: Or as one Last.fm user elegantly put it, "the sound of Jarvis Cocker fucking Britpop to death while Damon Albarn and the Gallagher brothers look on in horror." And what a sleazy, sticky, smoke-stained sound it is.
Sex rating: 5/5. Impossible to pick out just one line: the song is dripping with sex - just desperate, depressing and mostly figurative hate-sex.
O.U (Gone, Gone): Probably the closest Pulp ever came to a conventional pop song: short, sweet and stupidly catchy.
Sex rating: 1/5. "He needed her undressed" is exceptionally tame by Pulp standards.
I Spy: A song that seethes with class-hate, jealousy and the delectable nectar of vengeance. The venom is so palpable you can taste it; the menace so real that it scared the shit out of Luther Vandross when he shared the bill on Jools Holland. So vicious and sinister. So demented and pissed off. So immensely, wickedly delicious, it might even be my favourite Pulp song. God only knows what that says about me.
Sex rating: Anywhere between 0/5 - 5/5, depending on your class status, I guess.
Pink Glove: A charming little ditty about discovering your ex is into leather now, it has so much more heart than it should.
Sex rating: 4/5 for the general subject matter and melodic grunting. If they'd stuck around (any) longer they could have been the band to popularise harmonised moaning - and not in the Smithsian sense.
Mis-Shapes: A rallying cry to the mis-shapes and the misfits, the losers and the nerds, the geeks, the fat one, the "tramp", the boy who got sent to school in a jumper three sizes too big. One for anyone who's ever been laughed at, taunted or slapped around the head by some knob who thought he had it all worked out, when he couldn't even work out his maths. One for all those who are still slightly bitter, and not even ashamed of it. One for us.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless the thought of overthrowing a load of chavs turns you on. On second thought...
Bad Cover Version: It's a bit Christmassy, a bit anthemic and a lot sad. It does make me cry a little, as anything remotely poignant is wont to do.
Sex rating: 1/5. It's just too sad to be sexy.
Common People: Obviously.
Sex rating: 3/5. For all of its class anthem pretensions, it's essentially just a song about somebody wanting a shag, isn't it?
Thursday 6 October 2011
Pointless reviews of things you don't care about*
*with pretty pictures.
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
Gary Oldman searches for a mole. Not a bodily one - that would be weird - but a rogue agent spreading fear and doubt through a circus of spies in '70s Britain. Surprisingly, pacing isn't a problem; keeping up is the hard bit. It's a film that relies on its audience having an understanding of subtext, and more than one brain cell each. Sadly I'm deficient in this type of thing so it was all a bit of a slog, though a thoroughly absorbing one. I have it on good authority (Dad) that the period detail is spot-on: greys, browns, bad architecture and a general air of oppressiveness and paranoia. The performances are as good as you'd expect from such a cast and everyone gets their moment, which is a rare occurence with an ensemble but always nice. Take your brain, take your dad; don't take a toilet break.
*
Drive
Impossibly sweet and unbelievably brutal, Drive is the sum of so many mutually-contradicting themes, scenes and quirks that it should be an incoherent, silly mess. Of course, it isn't: it's the most elegantly violent thing since Oldboy and the best mood piece since Lost in Translation. Ryan Gosling plays the getaway driver who deigns to help a brother out, and comes to pay for it. Cue kick-ins, amateur dental surgery and lots of weirdly gorgeous synthpop. I'd love to write a proper review but it would take 2,000 words and a detailed Venn diagram to merely describe the tone, so instead I'll say just this: it's the cutest film of the year, and the most brutal. How does it work? I don't know. But it's so much fun, I don't need to.
Impossibly sweet and unbelievably brutal, Drive is the sum of so many mutually-contradicting themes, scenes and quirks that it should be an incoherent, silly mess. Of course, it isn't: it's the most elegantly violent thing since Oldboy and the best mood piece since Lost in Translation. Ryan Gosling plays the getaway driver who deigns to help a brother out, and comes to pay for it. Cue kick-ins, amateur dental surgery and lots of weirdly gorgeous synthpop. I'd love to write a proper review but it would take 2,000 words and a detailed Venn diagram to merely describe the tone, so instead I'll say just this: it's the cutest film of the year, and the most brutal. How does it work? I don't know. But it's so much fun, I don't need to.
*
Tomorrow I'm seeing Crazy, Stupid, Love. I know. I hope you're sorry, Gosling.
Monday 12 September 2011
Great Cure Songs (with wanky captions)
Bestival is over! Here's a playlist. The "hits" have (mostly) been omitted in favour of album tracks and B-sides, because i) I'm a snob and ii) I'm sort of trying to convert the unenlightened, and if they've not liked Boys Don't Cry for the last twenty years, they ain't likely to change now. The rest of you are welcome to share your opinions - unless, of course, you went to Bestival.
The Playlist (#2):
Breathe. Gorgeous.
Sugar Girl. Also gorgeous.
Plainsong. In which Robert perfects the formula for The Perfect Song, multiplies it by a million and makes a recording of what happens.
A Letter to Elise. 75% of why the Wish album is underrated. As in; it's so good it even atones for Wendy Time.
Pictures of You, Robert being lovely and melancholic over eight minutes (not five) of lovely melancholia. (It's late, shush).
2 Late. Not actually a Field Mice cover, though you'd be forgiven for thinking so for all the beatific jangly bliss.
Apart. For the chemists out there, this represents the other 25% of Wish's allure (and 100% of its woe).
Catch. Though I love it and regard it as one of the Cure's finest pop songs, I've partially included this for the video, which produces in me an inexorable desire to touch Robert's hair.
Underneath the Stars. From 2008's 4.13 Dream. Yep, they've still got it.
One Hundred Years. Well it wouldn't be complete without the mandatory dose of nihilism.
The Playlist (#2):
Breathe. Gorgeous.
Sugar Girl. Also gorgeous.
Plainsong. In which Robert perfects the formula for The Perfect Song, multiplies it by a million and makes a recording of what happens.
A Letter to Elise. 75% of why the Wish album is underrated. As in; it's so good it even atones for Wendy Time.
Pictures of You, Robert being lovely and melancholic over eight minutes (not five) of lovely melancholia. (It's late, shush).
2 Late. Not actually a Field Mice cover, though you'd be forgiven for thinking so for all the beatific jangly bliss.
Apart. For the chemists out there, this represents the other 25% of Wish's allure (and 100% of its woe).
Catch. Though I love it and regard it as one of the Cure's finest pop songs, I've partially included this for the video, which produces in me an inexorable desire to touch Robert's hair.
Underneath the Stars. From 2008's 4.13 Dream. Yep, they've still got it.
One Hundred Years. Well it wouldn't be complete without the mandatory dose of nihilism.
Sunday 11 September 2011
Saturday 10 September 2011
Shit Cure Songs
Because the Cure are at Bestival and I'm not, I've compiled a Youtube playlist of their worst songs. The idea is that we pretend that they're always this bad and therefore won't even care that we're not there, pissed in a field, clad in fetching onesies and partying to the best bits of Galore.
However, as I recently tweeted, the Cure have the unique distinction of being sort of adorable even when they're really bad, so no-one will judge you for secretly loving these songs (just as long as you kind of hate them too.)
The Playlist:
Foxy Lady. Vocals by Lol Tolhurst: drummer, keyboardist and generally belligerent gentleman. Disillusionment by Robert Smith. If you listen, you can hear Robert going "no Lol, no" at the beginning, which essentially tells you all you need to know about this one.
The Weedy Burton. Tom's favourite Cure song. At my wit's end here, seriously.
It's Over. The sound of Robert sitting on the loo and shitting out the worst bits of the 80s.
Fight. According to certain Youtubers, this has stopped them from going over the edge so I probably shouldn't mock it. I just think it's crap and enormously lacking in subtlety, melody and the general art of being listenable.* That's all.
*the internet says it's a word so a word it must be.
Club America. Wild Mood Swings is the Cure's worst album, and this is its nadir. It's just rubbish. I don't know what else there is to say, so I'm just going to whimper inaudibly.
Just Say Yes. In fairness, the awfulness of the song pales in comparison to the terrifying video. On the plus side, it's warming to know that they have more than one use for their groupies.
Wrong Number. Fun fact: if you recite the spoken word bit to cold callers down the phone, they never ring again. Trust me, I would know.
Never Enough, or as it is also known, "what happens when Robert goes, 'well hey we just wrote one of the most beautiful albums of all time (Disintegration) but general excellence is never enough for me, so let's go and write the shittest thing we're capable of right now." No, Robert. No.
Screw. An unsightly whitehead on an otherwise beautiful face, and the sort of song I imagine you put together after finally mastering Smoke on the Water, when you're making the transition into writing your own material. The problem is, at this point the Cure had Faith, Pornography and the preceding eight songs of the Head on the Door behind them and I... well... I just don't understand.
When Bestival is over I'll make a similar playlist of their best stuff, because I'm secretly quite nice and also 'cause I'm irrationally afraid Robert will read this and whinge about it/entitlement generally in his next interview (eta: March 2017).
However, as I recently tweeted, the Cure have the unique distinction of being sort of adorable even when they're really bad, so no-one will judge you for secretly loving these songs (just as long as you kind of hate them too.)
The Playlist:
Foxy Lady. Vocals by Lol Tolhurst: drummer, keyboardist and generally belligerent gentleman. Disillusionment by Robert Smith. If you listen, you can hear Robert going "no Lol, no" at the beginning, which essentially tells you all you need to know about this one.
The Weedy Burton. Tom's favourite Cure song. At my wit's end here, seriously.
It's Over. The sound of Robert sitting on the loo and shitting out the worst bits of the 80s.
Fight. According to certain Youtubers, this has stopped them from going over the edge so I probably shouldn't mock it. I just think it's crap and enormously lacking in subtlety, melody and the general art of being listenable.* That's all.
*the internet says it's a word so a word it must be.
Club America. Wild Mood Swings is the Cure's worst album, and this is its nadir. It's just rubbish. I don't know what else there is to say, so I'm just going to whimper inaudibly.
Just Say Yes. In fairness, the awfulness of the song pales in comparison to the terrifying video. On the plus side, it's warming to know that they have more than one use for their groupies.
Wrong Number. Fun fact: if you recite the spoken word bit to cold callers down the phone, they never ring again. Trust me, I would know.
Never Enough, or as it is also known, "what happens when Robert goes, 'well hey we just wrote one of the most beautiful albums of all time (Disintegration) but general excellence is never enough for me, so let's go and write the shittest thing we're capable of right now." No, Robert. No.
Screw. An unsightly whitehead on an otherwise beautiful face, and the sort of song I imagine you put together after finally mastering Smoke on the Water, when you're making the transition into writing your own material. The problem is, at this point the Cure had Faith, Pornography and the preceding eight songs of the Head on the Door behind them and I... well... I just don't understand.
When Bestival is over I'll make a similar playlist of their best stuff, because I'm secretly quite nice and also 'cause I'm irrationally afraid Robert will read this and whinge about it/entitlement generally in his next interview (eta: March 2017).
Thursday 8 September 2011
The Kili Diaries
I was meant to upload these a while ago but unsurprisingly, I couldn't be arsed. Here, for your reading pleasure, are the unabridged bits and bobs I scrawled in a notepad halfway up a mountain.
19.07
General observations and happenings:
- Kili is high
- Kili is steep
- Kili gets very cold, very fast
- We're camping at 3000m. Not dying yet. YET.
- Tom's ball keeps popping out.
- Steep drops abound.
- Pissing in the open is oddly liberating. No wee on my legs yet.
- I'm terrified of needing a poo.
- Rainforests aren't that rainy.
- I have an insect bite that looks like a nipple, albeita super an alarmingly pink one.
- Lunch is nice. Cheese and avocado. (Boring).
- Beever laughs like a monkey.
- The only time you don't hear "Pole Pole" is on the mountain. In Moshi, however, it's a total catchphrase - up there with "cheaper than Primark!" blah blah.
- Thinking is hard (Altitude).
20.07
- Today I got lost on Mount Kilimanjaro. Now everyone thinks I'm super fit, which is at once hilarious,and bemusing and untrue.
- Loughborough folk are actually nice! I retract all my filthy looks.
[Unknown]
- Africans like their meat well done.
21.07
- I got given a random sausage today. It reminded me of the end of Blasted, which in turn reminded me of sodomy and mutilation. Delicious.
- My hands are burnt.
- Today everyone felt absolutely shit. I only felt mildly shit. I win.
- Our tent is dirty. Tom is upset.
- Tom likes coleslaw sandwiches.
- I dislike descending and sunburn.
- Like a twat, I assumed I would not need walking poles. No. I definitely do, for I am clumsy andpointless inept.
- I keep getting a crispy face.
- It is Chris Trotter's birthday.
- Carwyn fainted.
- Diamox tastes like cheating.
[Things I didn't write about, but should have]
- the hilarious joke I made about my "pussy lips", brought to you by a sunburnt mouth and hypoxia.
- the bit where I summitted.
Eat your heart out, Hemmingway.
19.07
General observations and happenings:
- Kili is high
- Kili is steep
- Kili gets very cold, very fast
- We're camping at 3000m. Not dying yet. YET.
- Tom's ball keeps popping out.
- Steep drops abound.
- Pissing in the open is oddly liberating. No wee on my legs yet.
- I'm terrified of needing a poo.
- Rainforests aren't that rainy.
- I have an insect bite that looks like a nipple, albeit
- Lunch is nice. Cheese and avocado. (Boring).
- Beever laughs like a monkey.
- The only time you don't hear "Pole Pole" is on the mountain. In Moshi, however, it's a total catchphrase - up there with "cheaper than Primark!" blah blah.
- Thinking is hard (Altitude).
20.07
- Today I got lost on Mount Kilimanjaro. Now everyone thinks I'm super fit, which is at once hilarious,
- Loughborough folk are actually nice! I retract all my filthy looks.
[Unknown]
- Africans like their meat well done.
21.07
- I got given a random sausage today. It reminded me of the end of Blasted, which in turn reminded me of sodomy and mutilation. Delicious.
- My hands are burnt.
- Today everyone felt absolutely shit. I only felt mildly shit. I win.
- Our tent is dirty. Tom is upset.
- Tom likes coleslaw sandwiches.
- I dislike descending and sunburn.
- Like a twat, I assumed I would not need walking poles. No. I definitely do, for I am clumsy and
- I keep getting a crispy face.
- It is Chris Trotter's birthday.
- Carwyn fainted.
- Diamox tastes like cheating.
[Things I didn't write about, but should have]
- the hilarious joke I made about my "pussy lips", brought to you by a sunburnt mouth and hypoxia.
- the bit where I summitted.
Eat your heart out, Hemmingway.
Intro
Hello!
Welcome to my new blog. It's exactly the same as the other one, but now the apostrophes are in the right place.
Welcome to my new blog. It's exactly the same as the other one, but now the apostrophes are in the right place.
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