22December2007
Posted by Christopher under: Music.
The Verve played Manchester Central on Thursday night and after a scrabble about on ebay I managed to get two tickets at half the cost of the original. Likewise with Ocean Colour Scene who played Manchester Academy on the Friday. The recently reformed Verve were in good form though a couple of songs got a bit of a butchering, The Drugs Don’t Work being one of them. Ashcroft seemed to just amble along into the beginning when it really is a ‘lights out, hush descends on audience’ moment. Instead he appeared to be tuning up then launched into the first verse. I know playing the same song for the rest of your touring life must be a bit of an annoyance but it still came across as a bit … odd. The new tune from the forthcoming album ended up in a crescendo of noise a-la Spiritualized Cop-Shoot-Cop or some such and doesn’t seem to be the commercial big hitter that the previous singles from Urban Hymns were.
OCS however were in a different league. Maybe it was the smaller and cosier size of the venue but decent, solid guitar rock doesn’t get much better than this. With three axes and (at times) an acoustic there was plenty of firepower to play about with. Simon Fowler has a cracking deep gravelly bluesy voice and although he appeared to be suffering from a nasty cough the performance was pretty much flawless. Great gig and by far the better of the two.
17December2007
Posted by Christopher under: Travel & Leisure.
I’ve dispensed with the music titles. Topical ones are punchier and drop you head-first into the blog of the moment.
So to the Canary Islands. We arrived and within half-an-hour of docking were standing on our heads drinking beer upside down. The spanish soon realised the British had arrived. The evening slowly descended into chaos as I stood out as the only sober person in a group of 50 british sailors. However we ended up after a fairly intensive search of Las Palmas in a restaurant which featured an organist playing covers of all the classics. A group of germans in one corner frowned their intense disapproval as we sang God Save The Queen on exiting.
The next day was something of a come-down. I met Shaun on the dockside and we departed, having said our goodbyes to our companions of the last ten days. Almost to a man, everyone was flying that day or staying on the boat. Stavros was departing for a week-long sail around the islands and although we would see it over the next day or so as we walked about Las Palmas by Thursday it had gone.
Its hard to write kind words about Gran Canaria. The good parts were the constant warm weather and … thats pretty much it. If ever there was a case of utter destruction through rampant tourism I believe this is it. The place must have been kind of interesting before it became a seedy tourist hell-hole. It is supposed to be the island of four seasons. Sometimes the volcano peak is snow-capped, the north has rain and rainforests to match and the south is year-round sunshine. It even has its own mini-desert next to one of the beaches. Instead after stepping off the boat we were immediately greeted with a six lane motorway and a McDonalds - nice.
We did what we could when we quickly realised we had made a mistake booking our flight four days afterwards. We went sailing (twice) and even found one of the island’s better resorts - Puerto de Mogan (twice). The best experience on the island was the ferry trip (twice) where you are given Sangria and taken in close to the shore to watch schools of fish feeding through the glass-bottom boat. We also found a good curry house (twice).
Other than that my best advice is steer well clear. I have never been more amazed that an entire tourist destination could do the job of tourism so badly and have never been more glad to be home. Maybe I’m becoming less of a traveller than I used to be or just get cranker, quicker. Maybe I’m turning into the whinging pom those Aussies warned me about. All I know is that I’m probably never going to go back to the canaries and I really don’t care. Which I never thought I would ever say.
11December2007
Posted by Christopher under: Travel & Leisure.
Manchester Airport at any time isn’t pretty and two salty sea dogs (okay, one salty sea dog and me a dachshund tasting a bit briny) were sat waiting for the gate to be called. I am as yet unable to comprehend the sheep mentality of people who form an orderly but lengthy queue to board the plane and then cant wait to be off when it lands. Thankfully Shaun felt the same way and we sat until every other person had boarded then calmly handed over our boarding passes. The flight gave us chance to digest the breakfast that we had purchased and instantly regretted at the airport and after a couple of hours the Mediterranean drifted into view and we touched down in Malaga.
Its not a bad spot despite being the arrival point for the Costa del Whatever and we had a good tour of the harbour, excitedly pointing out channel markers and ships that had failed to appropriately communicate their status and intentions. This after checking into the hotel of course. We headed back to our lodgings for an early night due to the long bus ride to Gibraltar the next morning but not before taking in the delights of the roof-top spa and sauna. The chance to self-flagellate with birch branches was sadly lacking.
I’m not a fan of buses but the trip to Gibraltar was one of the better ones. A coastal route took us past the places famous from guide book including the dreaded Torremolinos and we arrived at La Linea bang on time. We took morning coffee in a cafe where a backpacker was doing likewise and eyeing us up suspiciously. As we crossed the border and once more gazed upon all things British he sidled up and queried as to whether we were also headed to the good ship Stavros S. Niarchos. We confirmed we were and Rob introduced himself to us. Although Shaun and I were split into separate watches, I had the good fortune to have Rob on my watch. Check out his pictures of the voyage here:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rob.fuller1/Stavros/
Gibraltar was very different from the one I visited a few years ago. Much building work down by the port made the place ring non-stop with hammer drills and heavy plant machinery. We spent the afternoon on board the ship undergoing instruction on climbing the rigging, how to set the sails, where to go, what to do and generally being ordered around. I was glad when we slipped out moorings in the dark dawn and headed out to sea. I woke to find The Rock receding from the stern as I helped make breakfast for the 40-odd crew.
Everything was going great until we found out the ship had a hole in it and was letting in water. We diverted to Cadiz where we had divers down to plug the hole in the prop shaft with a giant rubber band. As you do. We spent the night in Cadiz and left once the work was completed.
At this point I could give a blow by blow account of life on board a brig. Except it isn’t really all that interesting so here is a typical day instead.
0000hrs Wake for watch, gaze at stars, say wow a few times as shooting stars streak overhead
0400hrs Finish watch, go to bed
0415hrs Wake as someone starts snoring, scrabble round for earplugs, end up putting wet toilet roll in ears instead
0730hrs Wake tired and fed up as chef on tannoy announces breakfast and blasts through wierd dream about having rock band for dinner
0800hrs Happy hour - It isn’t happy and lasts over an hour. Basically cleaning things that don’t need cleaning. Mutterings about mutiny start.
1030hrs Hide in bunk, fall asleep, beautiful sleep
1200hrs Lunch, get told off about wearing hat at table, complain about being treated like a child
1230hrs Go on watch. Look for ships. See none. No hang on there’s one! No, its a coke bottle.
1600hrs Go to bunk exhausted from looking at big blue things like sky and sea. Realise bunk is blue. Dream of magenta
1625hrs Woken by bosun (boatswain) on tannoy explaining there will be a talk on sails in the mess in 5 minutes.
1630hrs Attend talk. Bosun awes everyone with complete knowledge of pretty much everything that has ever touched the ocean ever.
1730hrs Dinner. Late. Get told off for being late. Ask jokingly if I may use the toilet. No response.
1800hrs Read book. ‘Fatherland’ by Robert Harris. Very good.
2000hrs Go on watch. Discover radar on bridge. Play about with buttons and probably make some dolphins deaf in the process.
0000hrs. Go to bed, exhausted. Dream of standing still and not swaying about all the time like a drunk tramp in a bouncy castle.
Repeat until Gran Canaria, which will be written about later this week. Oh yes.
