Norvegr

The rest of Christmas was spent rather quietly with the exception of showing Steve, Lauren and Clare round Rotherham on Saturday night. Rumble Strip were playing in the SNAFU and as they are the second best band that play there we stayed and watched them until closing time after visiting several other places of local interest. Mainly the massive TV in the town center. I basically got drunk Sunday night then Monday afternoon with Mark, and then Justin and Lucy on their way back from Northumberland to Brighton. It was strange to sit in one of my local pubs drinking with two people I only saw in Iceland a few weeks previously. The flight back to Reykjavik was a nightmare. The original time for the flight was set at 7.30pm, both myself and my brother had received an email to tell us the flight was being delayed until 10.30pm. When we arrived at the airport about 8.30 we were told the flight wouldn't be leaving until 11.55pm. We dutifully took our seats on the plane about 11.45pm only to be told that there was a problem with a leakage on the nosecone and the technicians were coming out to fix it. It turns out the technicians didn't have the right piece of paper with them. They had the tools alright, but NO PIECE OF PAPER!! So they went away again, to try to find their piece of paper. Meanwhile the stewards started giving out drinks as complimentary, I thought the logic of this was a little off. A plane packed with angry people in a confined space, the best thing to do? Ply them with booze! Finally the technicians found their piece of paper and sellotaped the nosecone up or whatever it was they were doing and we were off. At 2am. Only a mere six and a half hours after the original time I had booked. I finally crawled to bed about 6.30am. Thanks Iceland Express!!

If you're wondering why there are pictures in this post, it's because Dave said it was boring just looking at blocks of text, so I thought I'd break it up a little. See, I listen to you, my loyal readership. Any more ideas, you know where to send em!

Vetrarnótt

OK, it's the day before we hang dead horses in the trees in celebration of the sun coming back full circle and providing us with the bounties of Earth again. Hail Wotan! I thought I'd do a short update on what I've been up to since getting back. I'll try to keep these short as Danny was complaining last night about how long winded they are. 'They're for me, it's an online diary.' I said 'Don't read it if you don't like it.' That told him.

I was out on Saturday night for Dave's 'Work do'. Which consisted of myself, Linzi and Dave getting into an awful state in Rotherham, deciding it would be a good idea to go to Sheffield and ending up in Club Shush at 4.30 falling asleep in the Chill Out room. So most of Sunday was wiped out until I called in on Mark in the evening for a game of draughts and then some more beer in the pub. Festivus is being very appeased this year!

I called in at Meadowhell on Monday morning to pick up a last present, I thought it should be relatively quiet, being that people are probably still at work. Boy was I wrong, it was like a nuclear war had been declared and everyone was panic buying tins of beans and other non-degradable foodstuffs. The place was rammed and it was quite frustrating seeing the lack of sense people have. I walked past a couple who were seriously eyeing up some pre-cooked roast parsnips. Now, call me dumb, but I thought that roasting parsnips was probably one of the easiest thing you could ever do. Peel them, put some stuff on them (olive oil and herbs or anything you have to hand...), put them in the oven, take them out when they are done and eat them. But then I guess some people have the ability to burn water, so need all the help they can get when it comes to doing the simplest jobs on the planet. God help them if there IS a nuclear war. Picture it; a time when shambolic groups of people are trading with different coloured pebbles and fighting over water. There would be another group of people slowly starving to death trying to find food that is pre-prepared in tinfoil trays with instructions to pre-heat the oven to 200 degrees. Unable to recognise food in it's natural state, i.e. with the skin on and not in a tray, they would be a dying breed. I weep for these times.

I called in to see Lauren at work, she showed me her body. Sorry, I mean bodies. Hundreds of them, in boxes. Rooms stacked full of skeletons. Some were rather interesting, especially the Anchoress. Then we both went and had lunch and then met Clare, which made for three hours of circular arguments. I still miss her though. I also bumped into Colin and managed to wrestle the last remaining Osprey books that he owes me out of his hands.

In the evening I called up to Dave's gaff and we celebrated Festivus yet again, this time whilst watching 'Get Thrashed' the documentary on Thrash Metal from the eighties. Pretty cool stuff. I was hoping Nathan would call over but he was obviously hopped up on copious amounts of cheap Dextromethorphan or something similar he'd bought in India.

Tuesday passed without much interest, I was listening to music and trying to find my Curb Your Enthusiasm DVDs, to no avail. I called over the Danny's, picked him and we called up to the Hind to meet up with Aimee and Juliette, whom I'd not seen for twelve years (she said thirteen, what's a year between friends?) (and that's Juliette, I'd not seen for 12/13 years, not Aimee, who I saw about six months ago.). The quiz was on and we did spectacularly bad. I did the first four answers on my own while they were all out having a fag and I scored 75% correct. It was only when I was joined by the other numbskulls that the brain drain began. Also Aimee and Juliette were both in trouble from their other halves for going out and having fun. Sometimes it pays to be single. all four of us piled up to Dave's for after hours drinks, even with Danny whining 'I have to be up at four'. I think he was a little taken aback at how drunk we were, but he was the kindly host as ever. Festivus was once again truly served!

Lifandi Lif Undir Hamri

We had our house Christ's Mass dinner on Wednesday evening, it consisted of Lamb for Duncan and I and fish ('fash') for Roz and Jo. All in all a lovely meal, ably cooked by Roz and Duncan, I washed up and Jo brought nothing to the table. I had a good long celebration of Festivus in the company of a bottle of rum, some ice and a lime.

I didn't sleep too well Wednesday night but dragged myself to work where I was promptly thrown out of the warm womb like office and into the cold harsh reality of the tent. No Facebook out there... Mind you, it was good crack, five men talking about men things, fighting, drinking and women. This only lasted until Lilja turned up half-way through the day, covered in make up like a two penny strumpet and reeking of cheap perfume. Not only did she ruin the man atmosphere, she cheated at cards during afternoon break. Thursday evening had been earmarked for a final night celebration and also Sindre's birthday bash. I decided to go, then decided not to go, then Jo and I got some shit of our chests that had been there all week, then I decided to go, then I said I was only staying for two drinks, then I went for a hotdog at midnight, then I said I'd only have one more drink, then I dragged Jo drunkenly through the snow at 2am. Good night. I was talking to Lilja for most of the evening, if you're wondering why I keep mentioning Lilja it's because she said she only reads this, but then stops if there's nothing in it about her, so I thought I'd keep mentioning her to see if she was still reading it.

I was awoken at 4.00am by my alarm, and dragged my sorry drunken, sicky pudding feeling self out of bed to go and meet Sindre and the taxi for the airport. The flight home was made dreadful by this massive Icelandic family sitting in all the seats around me, with their retardo son sitting in the same row as my seat. Their kids were screaming and fighting the whole way and Retardo the Magnificent kept jumping up and running about, kicking the seats in front of him and putting the tray up and down on the seat next to mine. I gave him some withering looks to make sure he knew I meant business.

The train journey from Stansted was little better, I had to change four times and finally got back home 12hrs after I had left the comfort of my nice warm bed. I was going to go out to Arcus' Christ's Mass party in Sheffield, but I was completely fucked from lack of sleep and had no real way of getting home that didn't involve an expensive taxi journey, so I decided to have a bath and listen to some of the twenty one CDs that were waiting for me on my return to the UK.

Balför

So we move into the final week before the annual festival of hanging dead horses in the trees in celebration of the end of the year. I have a been reflecting on a few things this week, one thing I have realised since Justin and Lucy left is how much I miss my good friends back in the UK. Only having a few days at Christmas just isn't enough time to catch up with people. I know I will not be seeing as many people as I want to over the next couple of weeks, but it will have to do.

On Monday I noticed that the Day the Earth Stood Still had been released. Or should I say, re-released. This is the remake of the classic, dare I say it, Seminal 1951 movie. The original is incredibly subtle and mature for the time it was made. It still has resonances 50 years after it was made. Poor old Keanu Reeves had a lot to live up to...

I'm afraid he didn't. It starts off OK, and follows the original quite closely, even thought the effects of Gort are terrible. But it rapidly goes downhill, there are scenes which make no sense (one in a railway station, where Klaatu is seen by a child manipulating a vending machine, but with no conclusion. During the same scene two men brawl over a train ticket, again with no conclusion.), it rolls along to a confused ending with plenty of Hollywood style effects thrown in for good measure. One of the most annoying things is the inclusion of a step-child of the main female protagonist. Not only is she white and he black (flying the flag for cross racial PC bullshit, whilst still being racist. Why couldn't it be a black step father with a white child? Because... shhhh, of ingrained racism in Hollywood...), but he's the most annoying child actor one could hope to spend the misfortune of watching for two hours. Mop topped and feisty he seriously should be left to the fate of falling into the river that Klaatu saves him from. Why do kids in films always have long hair? In my day all the kids I knew had shaved heads, mind you, that was to stop them getting nits off each other and so their hair wouldn't get tangled up in the machinery of the Dark Satanic Mills that we all worked in Up North. I digress.

To be fair, Keanu Reeves is pretty perfect as the emotionless Klaatu, he seems to have drifted happily into these kind of roles since doing the sham that is The Matrix. Anything that allows him to stare absent mindedly into the middle distance like a robot and half whisper some bullshit that is supposed to be profound is perfect for Mr Reeves. He still can't shake that Bill and Ted cloak though, eh? I expect people will be shouting 'Awesome' and twiddling air guitars during his funeral. Poor bloke.

Allfadr Odinn

I have just returned from a week long road trip across Southern and Eastern Iceland. Well, I say 'just' returned, I actually got in last night (unless I publish this on Sunday, then I mean 'Thursday'. Good God, there's a lot of double meanings in this post already...). I have had my first visitors from the homeland since arriving here, Justin and Lucy tipped up on Friday night for week 'olidays in Iceland. I have been planning this trip for the past six weeks and it meant that I couldn't go to the site Christmas party, but never mind. I was ill informed by Bjarki that it only takes 16hrs to get around the entire Ring Road (route Number 1) round Iceland. Three days would be enough time to see loads of things on the way. Now, I have absolutely no idea what kind of fucking rocket powered jet fighter he drives, but there is no way on Earth that one would get around the Ring Road in that time. The original plan was for the two of them to arrive on Friday and we would drive the four hours (Bjarki's estimation again...) to Höfn and arrive about eleven, that would give us the entire Saturday to explore the area and about half of Sunday for further look-see and then the drive back. The best laid plans of mice and men...

Justin and Lucy protested that they would have been on the road since eight that morning so didn't fancy a four hour drive so soon after arriving, so I suggested we stop at Vik on the first night (Friday). From experience, Vik I knew to be about two hours outside of Reykjavik. This they agreed to, we kidnapped Jo and after a short stop at Hagkaup to pick up some mung beans for Justin we zoomed out of Reykjavik. Only to stop at a crazy church with all the gravestones covered in Christmas lights. It turns out that this is not unusual in Iceland, it's something to do with letting the ancestors enjoy Christmas and the delights of being eaten by the Evil Christmas Cat.

Lucy had been driving up to this point and Justin took over, being unused to driving on the other side of the road and in a automatic we wobbled off down the road, to be almost instantaneously stopped by the police for a breathalyser test. Despite having half a can earlier Justin passed the test and we uncertainly carried on. It was now getting towards half past ten and Vik was no where closer to us than when we had set off two and a half hours earlier. Seeing a neon sign for the Hotel Ranga we pulled in desperate for somewhere to stay for the night. as we walked in we realised we were immediately out of our depths, see here for details: http://www.hotelranga.is/ The place was as opulent as they come and we had no business there. But to our amazement the light of Festivas was shining o'er us and the prices were really affordable, it must have been because of the season. Booking in and taking our share of the free mulled wine, we all went to bed happy little bunnies.

After an opulent breakfast of fresh bread, waffles and coffee, we hit the road for Vik. It had rained during the night and was raining as we set off. It didn't look promising, but as we traveled across the coast line the rain cleared but left the clouds, to give an eerie and dramatic quality to the surroundings. We stopped in Vik for the first Pylsur of the day and I called Duncan to see what progress he was making. The idea was for Duncan and Roz to drive out to meet us and then take Jo and I back home on Sunday leaving Justin and Lucy to continue on Eastwards. They had long since passed Vik and were speeding at a rate of knots towards Höfn. We quickly boarded the car and caught them up at a service station, a good enough reason for a second Pylsur. We continued on in quasi-convoy fashion stopping at a frozen waterfall and various other outstanding areas of natural beauty. Rounding a corner we got our first glimpse of Vatnajokull, the glacier that covers about 8% of Iceland and is about the fucking size of Yorkshire. In the fading light we drove down to one of the many tongues that protrude from the main Glacier; Svínafellsjökull. These things are incredible, dangerous and brooding, they seem to want to draw you in to certain doom. The fact that they are constantly moving as well makes them like beasts with primeval malevolence. The vast size and power is enough to make you go mad thinking about them.

The two car convoy set off for the final leg for Höfn, after being freaked out by Ice. We arrived at the Arnanes Guesthouse, a brilliant little place just outside of Höfn. All wooden walls and shit. We bombed it into Höfn to meet Duncan and Roz who were staying at another place in town and found a place we wanted to eat at as recommended by the Lonely Planet. The place was full of Christmas revelers and closed to the public so we took off to another place that wasn't recommended by the lonely planet. This was another example of the guide books lying to us. It said the waiting staff we unfriendly and grumpy, but we found the opposite to be true, we were given complimentary Christmas Lamb on pancakes (too rich...) and the waiter entertained us with jokes and went out of his way to sort out Justin's vegan diet.

Back at the Guesthouse, we settled in for a display of the Northern Lights, which were brought on by Jo falling on her arse, after drunkenly slipping off her chair... The next morning we met up with Roz and Duncan and drove out to a black beach with incredible mountains falling into the sea. The snow was thick all over the beach, something I've never seen before. Also something else I've never seen before was a herd of wild reindeer, come down off the mountains for Winter. The Guesthouse owner had told us about a waterfall nearby which we headed to, despite Jo's protests. The thing was frozen and after a perilous journey, Lucy, Justin and I managed to get behind the ice. It was like being in a magical Ice Queen's palace, but stonier. Roz and Duncan decided to split off and head up the Easternfjords whilst the intrepid four made a beeline for one of the Glacial tongues. We got the car as far we could up a frozen field, before being thwarted by a frozen river and carried on on foot. After an hour's march across a frozen wasteland, bordered on two sides by mountains we reached the Terminal Moraine of the glacier. Clambering over the top the only thing that came to mind was 'Fucking Hell!' The land fell away below us, a frozen lake ran into the foot of the Glacial tongue, which stretched out beyond the horizon. This was the single most impressive thing I have ever seen and we were the only four people there. It was like the end of the earth. The silence was incredible, you could have heard a pin drop from about a mile away.

Night was falling as we set back across the snowy fields and about an hour later we reached the car. Again the guesthouse owner had been a hive of information and had told us about a some natural hot pots in the area. Which we quickly found. The farmer who owned them called past in his truck and told us they were free to use, so we took to the water, under the stars, surrounded by four inch deep snow. The best end to the best day.

Jo, Duncan and Roz headed back to Reykjavik and I decided to gooseberry it out with Justin and Lucy for the rest of the week. We headed east up to the Eastfjords, the scenery was amazing and we passed about three cars in the eight hours we were on the road. With a stop at the frozen sea shore (and a walk out on the ice, as far as I dared...) we made for Djúpivogur (Jub Jub) a tiny little fishing village, tucked away in the fjords. After a quick walk around this tiny place we set back for the Guesthouse for the final night at Arnanes. The guesthouse owners gave us cookies and Quality Street on our departure the next day and we took our leave to Skaftafell National Park. Stopping at the Glacier lake we gazed in awe at icebergs floating in the river and a colony of seals basking in the sunlight. Hitting the road again we climbed up a hill up to Svartifoss were we were confronted by the sight of another frozen waterfall, this time with ten foot long icicles hanging off the hexagonal basalt blocks. another unbelievable sight from this beautiful country. Night was falling again as we headed out to Skaftafellsjökull which was reached after about half an hour's walk from the National Park car park. Again the power and might of glaciers was all too apparent as the moon was rising over the beast and we crossed frozen rivers and ice blocks to as close as we dare get to the thing.

Heading back we nearly walked over two Ptarmigan, the idiotic white (in winter) grouse that inhabit Iceland. Then tried to find a place to eat and a place to stay. Both failed and we ended up at a guesthouse who, although they were shut never turned people away, which basically means they were open. This was inhabited by a man with a claw hand, a fat woman and two pissing dogs. We tried to get some food in Vik, but the place was shut so we headed back to the hotel with only meager rations, scrounged in Hagkaup the previous Friday. A sumptuous banquet was prepared and we all headed to our respective beds.

The next morning was a later start than usual, we were going on a glacier trip and didn't have to be there until 11.30. We arrived about 11.00 and sat around waiting for nearly an hour before the bus from Reykjavik turned up with the other Glacier walkers in it. Strapping on crampons we filed onto a glacier, for the first time in my life. The sights were unbelievable, even with the pissing rain the formations from the water looked incredible.

Piss wet through, we headed back to the Hotel Ragnar and booked ourselves in for the night. A luxurious double bed and the most expensive meal I have ever had (which included Puffin meat fro starters...) awaited these weary travelers. The final day was a trip around the Golden Circle sights, which we had to ourselves and in the snow, which made for an interesting contrast to when I'd seen them before. Then back to Reykjavik full of stories of daring do and incredible sights.

Yesteday (I'm now writing this on Sunday) was a trip around the Keflavik peninsular, snowbound frozen landscapes, lighthouses, drying fish, hot springs and sea Trolls were the order of the day. I was awoken at four this morning by Justin and Lucy leaving, a sad goodbye as I won't see them again for a long time, but a great week in all.

If you've got this far, well done, this is more of a diary reminder for me than of interest to the layman.

Slaget I Skogen Bortenfor

On Thursday night we held our now bi-annual Play Night. We decided to up the ante somewhat this time and told the punters to bring their own games, as Jo refuses point blank to play Stratego, the only board game the crazy drunk Jesus freak owns. Lilja, turned up with "Ticket to Ride', which looked fucking amazing, with trains and everything along with some crazy card game and Cluedo in Danish!. Hrönn brought 'The Mad Magazine' game. Atli turned up with the nerdiest game this side of Nerddom. It was some fucking Vampire Card Game. I never understand these kind of card games, like Magic The Gathering and the like. I mean, when I want to play cards, I get some nice simple playing cards. I don't need cards adorned with pictures of fucking werewolves and goblins to enjoy a game.

I digress. Atli wasn't allowed to play with his cards, even though we kept telling him 'Yeah, we'll play after this game, promise!' That wiped the stupid smile off his stupid face. We played Cluedo first (Which Margret kept pronouncing as 'Clue Edo'. Brilliant), everybody raced to the foot of the stairs to reveal it was Fru Paafugleblaa with the Reb in the Billiardvarelse. I don't remember who won in mad scramble to the stairs, so let's just say it was me. Then it was time to play Hrönn's 'Mad Magazine Game' which, no offense Hrönn, was akin to pulling teeth. I definitely remember winning this one and Play Night moved onto Poker. Now, Poker is a game I don't know how to play but have always wanted to learn. We broke out the Jesus Freak's coins and everyone was dealt in. I had a good hand and kind of figured that I did, so I kept upping the betting, I then went all in and everyone else thought I was bullshitting them and matched my bravado. It paid off. I put the smack down on everyone and knocked at least three people out. Underestimate me, would you, you fuckers? I went to bed at the top of my game.

Friday was spent watching videos and relaxing over a few beers in the house. I awoke quite late on Saturday. This is the major problem when the sun doesn't rise until about ten am. I attempted to take a coat back, but the snotty cunt behind the counter said it had been worn and wouldn't take it back. I suppose having a shopping list in the pocket didn't help my argument that I had only tried it on in the house. With that failure I met Jo in town where we proceeded to the Perlan and the Saga Museum. I've already told you my comments on this place before, so I won't reiterate myself at this juncture. This time however, we took the opportunity to half the embarrassment and dressed up as Vikings, with chainmail shirts, coifs and Helmets. There was also a sword involved, I'm not sure how, the excitement was far too heady for me. After this I took Jo on a Battlefield Archaeology tour of World War Two Defensive bunkers. She said this was the highlight of the day, by far!

Hrappi called over Saturday evening and he and I headed out to a gig at Belly's. You'll remember Belly's for being the cheapest pint in Reykjavik, a snip at £67,982! Anyway the gig was a warm-up show for the 'Anti-Christmas' festival that is being held in a few weeks. We arrived to the dulcet tones of 'Dormah'. These were blasting out crushing Death Metal, very good stuff. Then came on the exquisitely named 'Bastard'. Again great Death Metal, with an Australian Singer; so for the first time I understood everything being said between songs. Next up were Forgarður Helvítis, one of the oldest bands in Iceland, fucking excellent Grindcore Punk with a really energetic singer. The next band were a power punk kind of outfit. They were good at what they did, but not really my kind of band. The final band were my favourite, Atrum. Fucking good Black Metal, in the Emperor style. They were all only young kids, but they had the attitude (and corpse paint) and talent to put on a real good show. I was just thinking to myself, wow these guys are just like old Emperor when they launched into a cover of I am the Black Wizards! Fucking Brilliant, it's one of my favourite Emperor songs of all time, ever. After the gig Hrappi and I went and got our Chickenbugers that always finish off an evening these days.

On Sunday Jo dragged me to shopping Hell in Kringlan Shopping Maul. Actually I wanted to go Christmas shopping, I had a few things to buy and knew exactly were to get them from. As it turns out, one of the shops had closed down, another one didn't have what I wanted and the final thing I wanted to buy was too heavy to carry around, so I ended up buying a magazine and two books for myself. Another completely successful shopping expedition for Sotheran.

We had a meeting at work today, during which we had our Secret Santa hoisted upon us. What this means is, we all picked a name out of a hat and we have to be nice to that person for the week, but without them knowing it. It culminates in buying them a present on Friday. We can be nice in various ways, sing to them, write them a poem, send a little gift, etc. I'm not going to tell you who mine is, but they are going to receive pictures of Nazi atrocities, children being raped by clowns and other such niceties. Fuck Christmas and fuck you.

...Into the Ardent Awaited Land...

The horror, the horror...

No more have Colonel Kurtz's word rung truer as on Monday night. I was plunged into the very Heart of Darkness, the Apocalypse was most definitely Now.

Atli and I met for a mano-a-mano match of Axis and Allies. For the past few weeks we have been playing with the hindrance of other people, some of them girls even. On Monday night we cast ourselves free of these shackles and went head to head. Atli took the Allies and I drew the Axis powers. The game went well for me initially, North Africa fell to Germany, parts of Russia and China collapsed under the weight of Japanese attacks. The American Navy patrolled the sea bed after sustaining the mighty attacks of the Imperial Japanese Navy. It looked as though the game balance would tip in my favour. But, British forces landed in Western Europe unexpectedly whilst German was starting to apply pressure on Russia. Quickly switching attention to the West lost the German impetus on the Eastern Front. This gave Russia breathing space to renew attacks in the Caucasus mountains and re-enforce all the land already captured. Japan was making great gains in the East, except against Russia who's tenacity in defence was helping keep the Imperial Army at bay. With Germany being pushed in on both sides, I decided to surrender the Axis forces to the mercy of the Allies War Crimes Tribunal. In a final hurrah I shot myself in a bunker under Berlin after marrying Jo in a shotgun wedding.

Atli was not a gracious winner, the next day at work was a living Hell. Every opportunity was taken to mention the war. Every little slip up was pounced upon. I was brow beaten and berated from eight until five. I went home a nervous wreck. I am still discomposed now as I write this. I cannot believe I lost to that simpleton. It just shows what a few simple mistakes can do to a man and his plan.

Winternight

Feeling much better on Thursday night I went along with Hrafnkell to the Global Battle of the Bands. Thingtak were playing and I went along to support. This was more than the usual clapping, the audience also got a vote along with the judges as to who the winners should be. We traveled over in the Thingmobile, to some place on the way to Keflavik. A little industrial estate in the middle of nowhere, where someone had had the amazing sense to set up a sports bar. Two minutes away from the venue, Hrappi turned to me and said 'I can't remember if I said or not, but you might have to pay to get in.' Thanks mate, let me know in plenty of time. A Yorkshire Man and his money are not easily parted. I need some time for this kind of information to sink in. You know, a couple of days to weigh up the pros and cons of paying for something. I agonise for weeks about making even small purchases like a toothbrush. 'How much does it cost, how long will I use it for, how much will each use cost me in the long run?' So to have this dumped on me, scant moments before I have to do the act of exchanging money sends me into spasms, where my pockets become a lot longer and my arms a lot shorter... I resisted the temptation to attack him and duly paid the fee of 500 Kroner (About £2.50...).

The bands that played were a mixed bunch. Of the seven groups I liked the TOTAL METAL band called Elect. They ended up going through to the final, as did the jangley-shit indie band who's name I forget and Thingtak, champions of the audience vote. I got back home pretty late and crashed out.

Friday evening was spent watching the first series of Black Books that Atli had loaned to me the previous day. I had heard a lot of good things about BB, from various sources over the years. It seemed to be the best ever comedy ever made according to everyone who has seen it. It was also written by one of the Father Ted duo, which I love. The first episode came and went. I thought, hmmm, OK, it's setting itself up, getting us familiar with the characters, building plot. At least that's a good excuse for being SHIT and not funny in the slightest. The second episode also came and went. One or two laugh-out-loud moments, but still not enough to credit the amount of praise heaped on the show. I watched the entire series to the end, hoping that something good would come out of it. Nothing did. The only thing I 'liked' was the Bill Bailey skit on Midnight Cowboy in the final episode of the series. I found it very laboured, obvious and lacking any real spark. It was like a sit-com for Guardian readers. Something they can talk about at dinner parties. A real disappointment. Jo went to bed after the last episode and as Roz and Duncan were out I watched something that never disappoints: Taxi Driver. Still brilliant, never mind how many times it is watched.

I met Duncan and Roz's friends, Ben and Ali, who were over for the weekend on Saturday morning. Jo and I went to the bottle bank to dispose of the house bottles then went on to do some clothes shopping. No more on this touchy subject shall I dwell, suffice to say Jo knows what went on and if she doesn't keep her mouth shut, she will suffer for it.

After a delightful Mexican lunch, we both headed home and got caught up in the protests again, they still haven't worked out that eggs don't break windows. Jo put Taxi Driver on and although I'd seen it the previous night I watched it again. About seven thirty we were picked up in the Thingmobile again for the Battle of the Bands final. This time nine bands played (they all played two songs each, in case you were wondering how long the thing went on for), again a mixed bunch, the best one (besides Thingtak, of course...) was a band called Borealis, I think. They played what can only be described as sixties porn music and had two dancing girls and a girl playing a FUCKING THERAMIN!!!! If you don't know what this is, find out on Wikipedia, I can't be bothered to explain, but every time I see one being played live it sends me into convulsions of joy! Thingtak didn't win, they didn't even come second or third, which was a real disapointment.

Sunday brought a new road trip! We were supposed to set off at the crack of sparrows, but since Duncan Roz, Ben and Ali had all gone out the previous night we set off more like twelve o'clock. Duncan went down to hire a car he was gone for quite a while and in his 'still-pissed' state from the previous evening's frivolities I feared that he may have been involved in some nasty accident or at the very least refused a hire car.As it was he was just delayed by the customer in front of him querying the price of the car. He had stuffed a million Fisherman's Friends into his gob to disguise the booze stink and they were duped into giving him a car for the day.

We drove over the Reykholt, via Hvalfjörður, which gave us another stunning and beautiful backdrop to the travel. Apparently the road around the Northern part of the fjord is one the most treacherous, with the wind turning cars over and other such horrific mishaps. Unbelievably we survived the ordeal with the car intact and the right side up. Outside Reykholt we stopped to look at Deildartunguhver, described in the guide book as the biggest and one of the most impressive geothermal pools in Europe. We stopped at what we thought was Deildartunguhver. A chained up gate stopped us getting into an enclosure that had several concrete structures built over a bubbling pool. A less than impressive sight indeed... Hardly the biggest geothermal pool in Europe and certainly not the most impressive. I was more impressed by the sink outside the public toilet nearby.

How wrong we could be... Further down the road was the real Deildartunguhver. Unbelievable. A wooden fence kept us away from the boiling and bubbling water that comes out of the ground at about 97 degrees C. The steam billowing out of the thing was hotter than any bath I've ever had and was almost impenetrable. See my photos on Facebook to see what I'm talking about.

We then stopped in Reykholt, final home of Snorri Sturluson, hero of Icelandic Literature. We looked at the great man's bathing pool and the remains of his house, which Angelos had worked on many a moon ago. Actually, because of these excavations at Reykholt I wouldn't be in Iceland at all. We looked at his statue but didn't go into the museum, we thought it better to save it for another day when we weren't battling against the fading light.

Further on from Reykholt we stopped at Hraunfossar and Barnafoss waterfalls. I tried to get to the edge at Barnafoss, but the ice made it too tricky and I thought better of plunging into what looked like a violent washing machine surrounded by jagged lava rocks. Pressing on we turned onto the gravel Kaldidalur road which would have taken us past four glaciers. The road was blocked with a barrier and despite Ben's insistence that the sign which said 'Impassible' meant 'Road Open' we turned back onto the main road. The light had well and truley gone so we set back to Reykjavik after another great road trip.

And now, a new part of this weblog!

The Funny Things Jo Says!

Jo was complaining the other day that these posts makes her look boring and wanted me to write up all the funny things she says or does. So folks, hold onto your seats as here we go...

On Thursday we were working in the tent and Jo said this really funny thing, no hang on... erm... It was Lilja that said it.

Last Monday during break we were all playing Shithead and Jo came out with this hilarious statement... errr, hmmm, no, it was Margret this time.

Sorry, this is not really working is it. This is the first and last of these.

Asum Ok Alfum Maer...

After a rather lazy Sunday afternoon during which I did nothing of any particular note, we decided as a household to go and see the latest James Bond offering. I was struggling through a post-alcohol haze to work out which cinema was closest to us and what time the film was showing. I tell you, there is something to be said for user-friendly websites... Anyhoo, Roz worked out that the film was showing at 8.00, so we all set off about ten to eight after shouting at Jo for ten minutes to get out of her room and get her coat on. A short walk later we arrived at the Haskolabio cinema just before eight to be told the film wasn't actually on until half past. For some fucking reason I got the blame for this cock up, not Roz, who had told us it was on at 8.00. On the way over I was giving my reasoned arguments as to why I don't like people eating in cinemas. For one reason it is a base and course thing to stuff sugary treats into your gob whilst making more noise than downtown Baghdad during 'Suicide Week'. I hate it. I told the others I hate it, whereupon Roz bought the biggest bag of popcorn she could find. Even though Duncan had tipped half the contents on the floor in the foyer, he still managed to eat the fucking stuff through half of the film. It was like sitting next to the chimps tea party in the zoo. I would have missed vital plot lines had there been any with all the noise he was making. To add insult to injury, even though the door to the cinema was open we all sat in the foyer until about half past. Upon entering the theater we found all the seats taken except for the four on the front left left that faced the wall. In our prime position we settled in to digest two hours of complete bollocks.

Alright, Quantum of Solace had a few good moments, like the end credits for instance, but overall it was complete shite. It was a very poor: It was confused, convoluted and corny. I'm not one who is easily impressed by explosions and gunfire. Mind you, I'm not fifteen anymore. Italy looked beautiful during the first scenes. That is about the only thing I can take away from Bond movies, the stunning scenery. Don't go and see it, you'll only be wasting your time.

Monday and Tuesday both passed without incident, except for cookie baking on Monday night. Jo had decided it was time for some home baking and set about making cookie dough for us all to play with. I made a cookie cock, which Jo promptly stabbed with a knife and called me a horrible boy, so instead I made a cookie cunt. This survived the night of the long knives, so did the Thor's Hammer, the Star Destroyer, the Crucifix, the Hammer and Sickle and the Swastika. Jo made me a ladies face to eat as well. They were lovely, especially the ladies face, which I took great delight in eating, just like Jack the Ripper.

This morning, Wednesday, I felt like shit when I awoke, I'd had really violent dreams on Monday night which stopped me sleeping, this occurred again on Tuesday night. The lack of sleep, not the dreams. So I was pretty under the weather and decided not to go into work. I had a long sleep and felt a lot better, so I cleaned the house and finished my book, which was about First World War Aviators. I got it for my birthday last year, which is on the 14th of July, in case you'd forgotten. The book was good, despite the vast amount of typos in it. I'm not a proof reader but it was getting embarrassing with the amount of mistakes made in each chapter.

Ultima Thule

Friday evening finally came into view after two pretty frustrating days at work. All the rest of the household went for a drink, but as I am not really into doing this in the UK I didn't go. Besides which, I'd just spent the previous eight hours with the cunts so why would want to spend any more time with them? I bought some beers and headed home. The rest of the evening was spent watching Family Guy and then Die Hard whilst consuming alcohol. I haven't seen Die Hard for a good few years, but it is still ridiculous. I seem to remember thinking that it was an 'alright' film. Friday night proved me wrong. It's tripe. I mean, the Heckler and Koch MP5 that Bruce is using fires at a cyclical rate of 900 rounds per minute. The magazine is a 30 round box, so mathematically that means that the magazine will empty in 1.5 seconds on fully automatic fire. The amount of firing Bruce does means that he must be carrying about 50 clips (I said clips, not chargers, it's an American film after all...), but I only saw him pick two up along with the magazine already in the gun.

Complete garbage.

After a lovely lie in on Saturday morning, I discovered that the shower was fucked, water was pissing out of the pipe that had been holed somehow. Maybe Jesus didn't like me inverting all the crucifixes in the house. But I couldn't get a shower because of this and neither can I go to the Swimming pool to get a shower there as my tattoo still hasn't healed sufficiently. Stinking like a pair of tramps, Jo and I headed into to town as Jo wanted to go clothes shopping. After a quick look in a few shops we stopped for some lunch in a Mexican place. I had a chicken 'sandwich like no other' and we decided not to have the Nachos with cream cheese, sauce and 'a bunch of other stuff', because Jo said she didn't want too much. After being fed and watered we wandered down to the flea market at the harbour 's edge. This is a pretty nice little market where you can pick up any kind of shit you need, be it dried fish or statues of witches, both of which are in demand in my life. I was trapped by a vast collection of record stalls, whilst Jo disappeared off to try to find some vintage clothes. I ended up buying a Village People album and the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, for the bargain price of three of your English pounds.

A coffee and tea in Kofi Tómasar Frænda later, we started to head back to the house only to be enveloped by the protest going on outside the Althingi about the current state of the Icelandic economy. The main protest was over, but a massive crowd was still in force pelting the building with eggs, melons, toilet rolls, snowballs and Skyr. I said to Jo, they want to be careful wasting all that food, they may need it in the weeks to come... I was also wondering why nobody had the bright idea of throwing rocks at the windows. We ran into Björgvin and he told us it was the largest protest that Iceland had ever known. Maybe that's why no-one was throwing rocks. They were still experimenting with what missiles worked and what didn't. Last week it was probably rotten tomatoes. 'No, these don't work... let's try eggs next week!' 'Ah the eggs just break when we throw them, what about snowballs? Let's try those this week...' Maybe next week someone will have the bright idea of launching a rock through the window and it will start a hail of stones! After the rioting had calmed down Björgvin, Jo and I beat a hasty retreat to the Green Parties headquarters where they were dishing out free waffles and coffee for hungry and tired rioters.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the company of Family Guy and Youtube until about ten when Jo, Duncan, Roz and I headed out to Grand Rokk for the Fuzz Fest. Duncan and Roz left us at the door and Jo and I went in to see four of the finest Stoner Rock bands Iceland has to offer, actually they're probably the ONLY Stoner Rock bands Iceland has to offer. Ashton Cut were up first they were OK, a bit young, but OK. Then Dust Cap came on, they were pretty fucking good alright. Very heavy and good riffing. Jo didn't like it one bit, which proves they must have been pretty good. After they'd finished Hrafnkell turned up. He was just in time to see Cliff Clavin, a band Thingtak had been beaten by in last years Battle of the Bands. It obviously still hurt and it was painful to watch a grown man crying, on his knees screaming 'Why? Why?' I thought them to be a little too changey in the first three songs style, but then the rest of the songs sounded very similar, if you know what I mean? You may remember I have seen Brain Police before, when they supported Brank Bjork and the Bros. They were good then and they were good this time as well. The singer has real charisma and he milks it, which what you need from a good front man. Hrappi and I tried to get a mosh pit started but the Icelanders seemed to be as unresponsive as the cunts in Sheffield and it was like trying to flog a dead horse. Mind you after last years incident at Sepultura I have always had to a bit wary of my ankle, even slipping on the barrow runs at work is enough to set it off. But I got a bit sweaty and got a bit of aggression out so everything was fine!

After the gig, Jo, Hrappi and I went over to Prikið to meet Duncan and Roz. We all carried on drinking and ended up in Kofi Tómasar Frænda (second time in one day... Two totally different experiences..) were I danced to Rage Against the Machine and MC Hammer, then had a pint poured over me by some stupid cunt, with whom I then had an argument about who's seat was who's. Duncan and I were only survivors of Kofi Tómasar Frænda and we went to pick up the obligatory kjúklingur borgari, nothing ends a night like chicken flavoured sawdust! We went for one final pint in some bar that I keep thinking I have never been in but have actually been in loads of times... Finally hit the hay about six, I think...

Laeknishendr

Not much has really occurred this week since Sunday. It's been a pretty run of the mill old week really. I spent most of it repairing the tent that was fucked in the storm the other week. This really consisted of slackening the straps and moving the poles around until they were in some semblance of an upright position, only to find the opposite one was still skewiff. Repeat the process ad nauseum. This took up all of the days until Wednesday when we finally got down to some hard-fucking-core trowel cleaning. I'm not going to continue with this incredibly tedious inspection of the minutiae of my working week, it is sending me to sleep just writing it, so Christ knows what it doing to you.

We have bee watching a few films this week, The Life and Death of Peter Sellers was one of the highlights. I found it a little post modern, but the repeats of Peter Sellers' characters was enough to hold the film together.

OK, hold onto your seats for even more navel gazing. I was thinking this afternoon about music and the music I listen to. I have had my MP3 player on shuffle and a song from Avro Part's Triodion came on. If you don't know Arvo Part is an Estonian composer who works a lot with Choral music, I particularly recommend De Profundis if you like this sort of thing. I digress.

The song reminded me of the Norwegian band Ulver. Not through the music but because I remember reading a recent(ish) interview with Kristoffer Rygg from Ulver who stated that one of his favourite albums was the Arvo Part offering Fratres. It is strange because I had purchased that album scant weeks before I read that interview. A strange coincidence indeed. I had been listening to both Ulver and Part for a several years before knowing the influence one had on the other. This also happened a while ago, I was reading an article written by Varg Vikernes of Burzum, my favourite 'band' ever. Full stop. Varg wrote that after murdering Euronymous, Snorre Ruch and himself drove back to Bergen with Dead Can Dance (Probably my third favourite band ever. full stop.) playing in the car. As much as I know about Burzum (and I know a lot. Some would say an obsessive amount...) I had no idea Varg had even heard of DCD, never mind he was a fan. Another strange coincidence when two of my musical loves cross paths...

OK enough of this shit, it probably wasn't my strongest posting so far. If anybodies got any ideas what I can do this weekend, please let me know.

Heathenpride

I forgot in the last posting that nobody got it right about the theme of the titles. Since nobody got it right or even bothered giving a decent answer, I'm not going to tell you what the theme is. So fuck off.

OK, this was probably one of the longest weeks that I have ever lived through. Finally it came to an end on Friday with an early finish because Jo and Vala were off for some Thelma and Louise road trip action in the East. I formulated a plan to stay in and drink beer for the night, owing to the fact I was getting a tattoo in the morning. I didn't want to turn up at my appointment shitfaced drunk from the night before and end up getting a fucking smurf tattooed on my cock or something similar. Before the beer, Roz, Duncan and I went to the baths (the last time for ten days, because of my tattoo healing, as it turns out...). Again, rather than actually swimming I sat in the hot tubs for an hour. We got chatting to some Danish Lady about the recession, until Duncan said something outlandish and she left.

Back at the gaff, I settled into the night with beer and Wayne's World. I've not seen Wayne's World for a long time. When it came out (In 1992, fact fans...), I was heavily into Metal and had no sense of humour, especially about the things I held dear. Like Metal. I refused to watch it for years, until I finally watched it and thought actually it's an alright film. Problem is, it hasn't aged too well. It all seems a little bit laboured now. OK, it's not an intellectual film by any accounts, but I do like my comedy a bit deeper than that. It passed a couple of hours anyway.

I got up earlyish on Saturday for my eleven o'clock appointment and got down to Sverrir's Tattoo parlour. What was thought to take two hours actually took three hours, what with all the detailing. During this time, Sverrir and I got to know each other a little better... I found out all about his wife, whom he'd married a year previously, all about the farm he owned in the North and his lack of interest in cows, but saintly offerings of his extra Salmon stocks to the local poor people. I found out all about how he started tattooing, all about how he had started dealing drugs at age fourteen. I found out all about the two men he had killed and the eight months he had spent in solitary confinement during his two year jail sentence for manslaughter as a result. Yes, you can find out an awful lot about a man in three hours. The tattoo looked fucking brilliant when he'd finished, murderer or not, he's an excellent artist.

I was finished about two and waiting outside was Roz, looking extremely nervous, for her appointment. She asked me if it had hurt, I said I didn't know as I'd passed out instantly. She didn't appreciate this, and went a whiter shade of pale.

I left Duncan and Roz to get acquainted with Sverrir and his needles and set off to Atli's gaff, where we were going to play out the war of the century on the Axis and Allied board. Lilja was playing this time, as was Hrönn and one of Atli's mates from Keflavik. Lilja drew Japan, Alti was Germany, Hrönn had Britain, Atli's mate (Who's name escapes me...) had Russia and I drew America. Things started in favour of the Axis, Germany made great gains in Africa and Russia. Japan also pushed the USSR back and knocked out America in China. It looked like the fate of the West was in the balance until the Mighty Juggernaut of American Industry pushed Germany out of Africa, took control of Western Europe, smashed Japan out of it's stronghold in India and the Pacific Islands. Surrounded on three sides, Germany surrendered without a fight and Japan followed suit. Atli will blame the fact that Japan never held India as a feeble excuse for losing the game, but we all knew it was bad tactical planning at Axis HQ that lost the day.

After the VE and VJ day celebrations had quietened down we all headed into town for Björgvin's poetry book release do. Turning up late half through the recital, the four of us sheepishly took our seats and got ready for a hard-core poetry fest. In Icelandic. I'm very sure the poems were great, the audience responded well, the background music, provided by Duncan and Hrafnkell, was good, but the only words I understood was when Björgvin told Roz to stop talking.

After this was over the remaining few of us headed out to a bar I've been in before, but cannot for the life of me remember the name of. I talked about the finer points of the game with Atli's chum and corrected a few of his misconceptions about the First World War. I tell you, I'm a fucking PARTYYYYYY GUY!!! Hrappi kindly gave us a lift home and I crashed out pretty drunk and covered in blood and ink.

I spent Sunday doing what should be done on Sunday's, nothing... I watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail and made a video for a song I recorded last year sometime. It's a cover of a Burzum Classic; Lost Wisdom and can be found here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v="cVNZqjznggo

The video is not too important, it is only there so I could post the song up.

Galdralag

On Sunday evening Jo and I settled down to make a jigsaw, one of several in the house. The one we choose was of Noah's ark and all the animals waiting patiently in line, not eating each other or fighting or fucking, to get on the Ark to be saved. Now, looking at the box lid I was wondering how did Noah decided which animals would make it onto the Ark. I'm not talking about leaving the Unicorns behind, they were shit anyway what I mean is how did he whittle it down from all the millions of animals to just two of each species. Was there some kind of test? Did they have to be good at carrying stuff, if they were, say, camels. Did their shit slinging skills have to spot on if they were Chimps. Even with all the time in the world, just setting up an Olympics style contest for animals would be a fucking task, never mind judging it and deciding on winners of each event. Surely he must have cut some corners, so this must also mean that some of animals on the Ark were not up to scratch. Maybe the two Lions he chose were particularly rubbish Lions. More like the kind of Lion that would spend it's life signing on and watching Jeremy Kyle every morning before popping down the Job Centre to pick up it's Giro. It's just a thought.

Anyhoo, we made the jigsaw, but as it progressed things took a decidedly odd turn. not all the pieces were there. This in itself is not odd, but when fully assembled the Jigsaw took on a new dimension... There was what looked like a deliberate removal of certain animals. Looking on the box to see what was missing we saw there was a rather large Tortoise in the bottom of the picture. Jo did a quick search for tortoise int he bible and found the following:

These also shall be unclean unto you among the creeping things that creep upon the earth; the weasel, and the mouse, and the tortoise after his kind, in Leviticus 11:29.

OK, you say, a weird coincidence, but as Roz was looking through her room for writing paper she chanced upon a large pad. Glancing through it there were several pictures of crude Crucifix's, a picture of Jesus with 'Jesus loves you' written underneath and creepiest of all the letters WWJD? written several times in various styles. If you don't know WWJD stands for What Would Jesus Do? and is a reminder to do what is right in Christ's eyes. Now call me cynical but anyone who needs a continual reminder on how to live their life in the correct fashion shouldn't really be let out of the house...

I sleep very uneasily in that house...

We turned up on site on Tuesday morning to be confronted with the sight of the large tent listing badly, the strong winds during the night had blown half the fucker down. Two of the heaters were smashed to the floor and the poles in complete disarray. The wind was still blowing strongly as we tried valiantly to correct the damage. It was like trying to tie sails down on the high seas during a storm on a boat with only three crew... It had to happen on the day that nobody was in as well. We managed to get the thing secure even after loosing two of our number, both within minutes of each other. Duncan had his finger trapped in a ratchet for the straps and moments later Sindre took the end of his thumb off with the same device. This led to Ace calling him Stubs today, then blaming the new nickname on me...

Speaking of which...
Atli Quotes, when I was making some derogatory comment in Jo's direction: 'You're on slippy ice.' All ice is slippy, Ace. What is funnier is I originally misheard him and thought he'd said 'you're on slippy eyes.'

Shores in Flames

Posting a comment wasn't so difficult was it? Now it means you can do it all the time. Come on people, feed my ego... Thanks for all the posting, but I can obviously see some idiots amongst you who are champions of Braveheart... Don't waste your time watching this shit, watch something good, start off with La Haine and work from there. Life is too short for Mel Gibson...

Earlier this week, we machined a large amount of material from Area B, that we would have had to have removed by hand. Now, call me old fashioned but the idea of spending a week trowelling off peat ash deposits fills me with dread for my mental state of mind. So the idea to machine layers off was a blessed relief. After this had happened a few of us cleaned up the entire tent ready for more removal of material. When this was finished I managed to be the only one left in the warm, dry tent to record the deposits. Ha! IN YOUR FUCKING FACES YOU ICELANDIC RACISTS!!! The Brits are back in charge. Everyone else was back in the cold draughty tent whilst I was living the life of Riley in the lap of luxury. I even had butler service. My well needed solitude wasn't to last and a few people were moved back into the tent after I'd finished recording all the layers.

At about eleven on Wednesday night the Northern Lights were the best we've seen whilst being here, I however was slightly distracted, so didn't fully appreciate their incredible natural beauty...

On Thursday night, Jo and I went to the cinema around the corner from the house. Despite having me only having three hours sleep the night before, fucking thinking about fucking things, we went to see 'Burn After Reading'. All I can say is, see it. Then see it again. Clooney and Pitt are so obviously having so much fun making the film it is infectious and I will never see John Malkovich in the same light again...

Friday finally rolled around and despite initial ideas to go into town, Jo and I decided to spend the night in. It was pay day (finally...) and we headed to the wine shop after work. This was a very necessary trip as of this weekend, thanks to the war between Britain and Iceland, prices are starting to go up and booze will increase by 25%!! It's like war-time Britain with rationing and everything. Before you know it we will be drinking powdered wine and shops will be displaying signs saying "Yes, we have no Putrefied Shark!". In Iceland the government controls the sale of booze and decides at what time you can buy it. Which basically translates as any time between about 1pm and 2pm on Wednesday afternoon. Or at least if feels like it. You have to get in there fast and make your purchases quickly before they pull the shutters down. This leads to a situation when you've left the shop realising that you have bought loads of shit you didn't want in a desperate rush to buy SOMETHING. I end with Cooking Sherry, Brazilian Whiskey and six cans of Egil's Malt Appelsin, and that's on a good day. Friday was no different and Jo and I left the Vínbúðin (Booze shop) with a box of 24 Budvar bottles. I tell you, that walk home was a long one... I'm sure Hercules had to do something similar in his twelve tasks, it came straight after the one where he had to clean the Augean stables in a single day. After this heroic task we decided to stay in and drink the bottles until we were stupid. I went swimming with Roz and Duncan first of all. When I mean swimming, I mean I sat in the hot pots whilst Roz and Duncan did some real exercise.

On Saturday, Hrafnkell came and picked us all up for our road trip down south, we went to the recycling centre and dropped off all the bottles we have been accumulating in the house for the past month or so (Owing to Jo's booze habit of about eight bottles of wine a night, we were at the stage of making furniture out the empties as there wasn't enough room left and they were taking over the house...). Then we headed down south to the Waterfall whose name I forget, the frozen path reached around the back of the falls and although Hrappi and Duncan made it round there, the soles of my shoes just weren't up to the task of walking on ice and I had to stay behind. The next call was at the bigger waterfall of Skógarfoss which was frozen but had much easier access. The name translates as Forest Falls, or something similar, but I was fucked if I could even see a single tree, never mind a forest... We climbed to the top of the 60 meter falls and marveled at the wonders of Mother Nature, then laughed as Hrappi fell over in the mud...

After gazing in awe at Skógarfoss we headed on East and turned off the road towards the Glacier at Sólheimajökull, which could be reached by a tiny dirt road across a wide desert like valley from where we could see Mýrdalsjökull, Iceland's fourth largest Glacier. With a couple of hairy moments we reached the Glacier and were all blown away by it's sheer size and majesty. Finally the school party that seemed to have been shadowing us all day left and we had the place to ourselves as the sun was setting. The colours of the place were unbelievable and the skies amazing. We headed onto Vík for some food and with Jo's inane directions and bad navigation searching for a place we finally ended up back at the place we started and I had fish and chips for me dinner.

After a straight two hour drive back the five of us headed out into Reykjavik for drinkies until five, when I headed for bed.

Atli Quotes: On Hrafnkell fancying Jo's Mother 'Isn't that the Octopus Syndrome?'

On the direct translation of New Years Eve from Icelandic to English: 'Old Year's Night.'

On the direct translation of slang for taking a shit in Icelandic 'Playing chess with the Pope.'

Competition Time!!

The past few posting titles have had a linked theme running through them. I'm not going to tell you which ones have the link, but if you can tell me the link you will win a Alex Sotheran pencil and a free subscription to this weblog, just put your answers in the comments...

Baptised in Fire and Ice

OK, before you read this, I have a small favour to ask of you. If you read this entry, please leave a comment. You can write anything, all I want to know is who is reading this shit. You don't even need to sign up for a Google account or anything, you don't even need to be known, just a small favour to me. A small thing, since I am keeping you entertained for free with this thing...

Last week I was talking to Bjarki about films, he said that Braveheart was one of his favourite movies, which led me onto an hour long rant about how bad Mel Gibson was. And Braveheart in particular. I mean, it's not just that it's historically inaccurate, but the plot it completely implausible. I'm not going to go into it this too much, but he says he'll never forget his wife's memory after she is killed, but promptly jumps on the first French Bint who happens to open her garlic encrusted legs. Way to go to remember your wife, William... This is just one in a long list of bullcrap that pervades this film and I don't want to go into it right now. The one Mel Gibson film I did like was Passion of the Jebus, but I do like a good comedy.

I digress. After my rant, Lilja and Davið started talking about getting Mel Gibson to star in a movie about the Cod Wars (for those of you that don't know, the Cod War was three real wars between Iceland and Britain beginning in 1958 and finally finishing in 1976. It was over fishing rights and fish are about the only thing to get Icelanders excited enough to go to war over. Iceland won, if you were wondering.). I got more of the plot out of Lilja today.

There will be three films, a trilogy, if you will. Lilja has only fleshed out the plot of the first movie. Gibson will play an Icelandic Fisherman, who lives peacefully enough (She told me his name, but being unable to even say the fucking thing, the chance of me writing it down is minimal, it translated as 'Thor Cattle') with his family, doing what fishermen do. One day whilst he is out at sea catching Cod and wearing an Icelandic jumper, the dreaded English fleet appears on the horizon and makes for shore. King Elizabeth of England has dispatched the Royal Navy to Iceland to capture one of the famously beautiful women for use as his sex slave. I should interject at this stage and tell you that the English have the appearance of Orcs (Now, everyone must have seen Lord of the Rings, so I don't need to explain what an Orc is...). Picture the scene: an English Sail ship decked out in Black, with Orcs and Goblins running wild all over the decks and rigging. Fighting and vomiting everywhere, this is the English Navy. They land the ship and pile ashore, who's farmhouse do you think is in their path? Yep, it's poor brave fisherman Mel. His wife is well known to be the most beautiful of the beautiful women of Iceland, so who becomes a prime English target? Yep, it's poor brave fisherman Mel's wife... The English lay waste to the farmhouse, kill all six of poor brave fisherman Mel's children (krakki, as they are known in Icelandic...) and capture his wife. Tying her to the mast the English fleet sets sail back home with their prize for King Elizabeth of England. Mel returns laden with Cod for his wife and children and discovers the English War Crime, he flies into a rage and goes to Reykjavik to raise an army of Fishermen to attack England in their fishing boats. They ram the coast of England (the ramming is probably the only accurate bit in the plot, but it was ramming English Navy Frigates in the real war, but when has historical accuracy ever stopped Mel before? The Patriot anyone?) and manage to sink Wales. The Icelandic army of blond haired, blue eyed, Six foot six giants led by poor brave, four foot three, brown haired, brown eyed Fisherman Mel Gibson storm Old London Town and head straight for Buckingham Palace where Poor Brave Fisherman Mel's wife is being held. Thankfully King Elizabeth of England hasn't had his wicked way with her yet and Mel defeats the giant King of England (think of the cave troll in LOTR...) and returns triumphant to Iceland, where the Icelanders are free to continue fishing as long as it's within their 200 nautical miles Exclusive Economic Zone which became recognized internationally on November 14, 1994, after having been agreed at the conference on the Third United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea in 1982.

That was the basic plot for the first film, there are two more to come...

I asked Roz if she was enjoying her job the other day, I think she was in bad mood as she said she'd rather be raped by a shit smeared imbecile than do archaeology.

Atli Quotes: on the unspoken war between Britain and Iceland over the money crisis; 'Do you know how during the Iraq war, when the Americans changed the name of French Fries to Freedom Fries, we [Iceland] have changed the name of a 'Full English Breakfast' to 'Shithead Disgusting Breakfast'

Now, it's over to you. Leave a comment if you got this far...

From Father to Son

In the last post I completely forgot to mention that on Tuesday night, Duncan and I went to Thingtak's rehearsal. Hrafnkell brought his other guitar so we could rehearse some Sudoku tracks as well. I showed the lads a few songs and we played through. Then Thingtak played a few tracks, whilst Duncan and I listened. Fuck me, those lads are good players. Steppi kept saying they were fucking everything up but it sounded fine to me.

After work on Friday I went to the English Pub to meet a few of the heads from site, but I was tired, not having slept so good all week, so only had two pints and headed for home with Jo. After a quick Friday night Kebab we both headed back and watched About Schmidt, the Jack Nicholson movie. I've saw it when it came out in the cinemas and had been wanting to watch it again as it was so good. It's very funny and sad at the same time. I had an early-ish night as I needed sleep.

Saturday saw the heralding of NERDFEST 2008! Ace and I had been talking about playing Axis and Allies (the board game...) all week and the time had finally arrived. Hrafnkell was also persuaded to come along for the ride and although Bjarki was asked he declined. He works as a bouncer and was working til about seven Saturday morning. Hitler never made such a weak excuse when he was about to take the Sudetenland. Atli brought along a mate of his, Jorn, or Jon, I'm not sure how you spell it. I took control of Russia and Britain, Ace had America, Hrafnkell drew Germany and Jorn or Jon had Japan. This is how the game progressed. Basically, Britain and Russia helped one another to crush Germany from both sides, whilst America watched, saying 'It's a European war, we don't want to get involved.' and sat on it's vast reserves and never extended the hand of help. Japan was pretty ineffective in the east except for sinking the American navy and capturing China and small bits of Russia. America still sat by, saying 'It's a Russian/British problem, we don't want to get involved.' British quick thinking combined with Russian determinism pushed the Japanese back to the sea in Asia. After the downfall and suicide of Hrafnkell in Germany Japan was finally attacked by America trying to capture the last moments of glory from the real victors Britain and Russia.Needless to say, it failed. Jon or Jorn surrendered before Britian could mount a final crushing amphibious assault. Both Jon or Jorn and Hrafnkell were executed for War Crimes against Plastic toy soldiers. Britain lost literally dozens of pieces in the fighting, Russia lost over twenty figures defending Europe against fascism. What did America lose? One tank and one bomber.

It was Margret's birthday on Saturday and she was having a party, so we all headed over about ten. It was pretty busy and there was free booze, which is always a good draw... I had intended on only staying a couple of hours, but it was the wee hours when we finally headed for home. Hrappi jumped up and played a few songs on the old Geetar, he played a fucking Queen song and dedicated it to me. The tubby bastard. A good night was had by all.

This morning, Sunday, Duncan and Roz headed into town to pick up a hire car. We had been discussing going over to Hekla this weekend. Apparently it is due to blow, the last time it erupted was in 2000 (I think), and it is well overdue throwing molten lava over the surrounding farms. All reports were that it could go this weekend. So, despite all protestations from the locals, the adverse weather outside Reykjavik, the lack of a map, warm hiking clothes, first aid kits and provision of getting in touch with emergency rescue, we set off. Jo wasn't up for it, maybe she knew something we didn't. Roz, Duncan and I travelled for two hours across icy gravel paths that passed for roads, through zero visibility snow storms, and finally onto the flat valley bottom with the oppressive mass of Hekla staring down at us. We didn't pass another car for what seemed like an eternity. Roz was the first to crack. On a road that we couldn't see for the snow and ice she decided that we were too close to an active and ready to blow volcano and wanted to turn around. Fortunately, Hekla didn't blow by the time we had headed back to Reykjavik. But phew! it was a close shave!

Valhalla

I showed up for work on Tuesday and was promptly told by Sindre that I'd be working in the new tent. A victory for the anti-Racists! I was being moved out of the cold miserable open tent to the new luxuriant, heated and well lit marquee. It was like all my Christmas' had come at once! I trembled with delight and excitement about the new opportunity, no-one else from the UK had been asked to go in the new tent. The temperature had hit an all time low, maybe somewhere in the -40c region.

The previous night the wind had blown all the windows out of the new tent. Our first task was to take down all the walls for the windows to be repaired. I was back in the biting, howling wind. at least the old tent had four walls...

In a further attempt to cement relationships between the two almost warring nations, we had a 'Play' night (as Ace McCloud called it.) . Jo came up with the idea, telling Hrafnkell to come over to play cards one night, it quickly spiralling out of control so that everyone was invited to come and play.

As it turns out, only Hrappi, Ace and Hrönn managed to make the games night. Lilja had promised to come and at the last moment was 'involved in a car accident' so was unable to make it. Even with Hrönn bringing her knitting it still turned into a drunken orgy of violence, brought on by over-excitement during games of Puck!, Cheat and Shithead.

Home of Once Brave

On Thursday or Friday, I forget, we were having a discussion on site about super powers. Now, I have always been of the opinion that the only super powers that you need are: Invisibility, X-Ray vision and the ability to walk through walls. Ace McCloud said the ability to steal other people's abilities, which I thought was pretty good. Duncan said the ability to fly, which a bullshit ability. "But I'd be able to fly anywhere in the world' He said. 'But with invisibility you'd be able to walk onto any plane and fly anywhere in the world.' I said. 'I'd be able to fly home from work.' He floundered. 'I wouldn't even turn up to work.' I countered 'I'd be too busy looking at women in the shower. And I wouldn't need money, I'd just take whatever I wanted, cos no-one would be able to see me.' The stupidest of all the abilities was Roz's ability to talk to animals. 'I'd be able to solve crimes by asking the birds who did it!' she defended her stupidity. Imagine the scene:

a courtroom where a murder trial is taking place:

The prosecution 'I call forward my first witness; a Blackbird.' I can't imagine how quickly this case will be thrown out of court.

'I'd be able to talk to my pet tiger!' She attempted one last plea.

'What about? How it was in his cage? How he'd like to be back in India with his family?'

I am drowning in a sea of dunces.

I stayed in on Friday night and played computer games all night, then got up on Saturday and did exactly the same thing. Until the evening where we all headed down to Angelos and Sindre's gaff for a house warming party. I got pretty drunk and then we all headed into town at about 4 am, so I managed to beat my own record of staying out. I finally got home about 6 am, well oiled....

Sunday began as a lazy day until Jo dragged me out of the house for a walk round the Grotta Peninsular. We stopped off at a supermarket where Jo took photos of stupidly named food products. Ho ho ho, stupid foreigners... At the lighthouse of Grotta the wind picked up and threatened to blow us out to sea. Fortunately all it did was give us slight hypothermia. A hot-dog and a cup of coffee later we decided enough was enough of battling the elements in an attempt to have fun and headed home.

One Rode to Asa Bay

Last week at work, before I left on Friday we all had a hand in putting the new tent up over Area B. The thing went up easy enough, well at least on my part, as I left half way through to go home... When I arrived back on site yesterday the ground in the tent was being cleaned and the new heaters were being installed ready for winter. Also the lights were put in place and the whole thing lit up like Christmas. Once the heaters were turned on the whole place became a little snug haven.

Not for us Immigrant workers though... The Icelandic staff were all moved into the new tent and the rest of us Brits/Norwegians worked in the cold, cold old tent. The wind blew like knives and broken glass through the wind tunnel created by openings in the tent. The frozen ground was like concrete beneath our trowels. The Icelanders had the audacity to tell us we weren't welcome in the new warm tent, we had to suffer like dogs. I spent the day shouting 'Racist!' at all the Icelandic staff. Davið and Lilja dropped by every-so-often to tell us how warm it was in the new tent. Poor King-Of-Scotland Atli had to work with us, measuring stones. He said he had decided to become a Brit and wanted to be called 'Ace McCloud'. Bjarki threatened to set dogs on me when I tried to gain access to the new tent after lunch. I only wanted the camera. All this was coupled with Jo's continual sexual harassment which only made my day worse.

Atli Quotes:


On the decision by Britain to freeze Icelandic bank accounts under the Terrorism act:

'We are going to get a bank loan off Osama Bin Laden to help us out.'

Song To Hall Up High

A funny thing happened on Friday evening which was blown out of proportion by Jo. This is what happened. I arrived home earlier than the others and jumped at the chance to sling my work clothes into the washer, so I stripped down to my pants and threw my site gear in the machine, I went upstairs (Only in boxers, remember) and picked up the rest of my clothes as I intended on jumping in the shower. I went back downstairs and as I was passing the kitchen I remembered I had a piece of chicken in the fridge that was under threat of going off as I was going to be away for the weekend (More of this later). I decided the best place for the chicken would be the freezer, so I located some clingfilm in the kitchen (still in my undercrackers, remember), and proceeded to wrap the chicken in it. It was just at this point that Jo arrived home. As she stepped through the door, I yelled 'This is not how it looks!!' We laughed like twats and I thought the incident forgotten...until... Later that evening we were having a site night out in town, as Oktoberfest was in full swing in Reykjavik. During the evening the incident was brought up by Jo, except by the time she had finished telling everyone, the story had evolved into her coming home to find me wrapped in clingfilm with two chicken breasts strapped to my chest as makeshift lady bumps. Further embellished with chocolate raisins for nipples. According to Jo's version of the story, I was dancing around the apartment singing 'I want to be a girl! I want to be a girl!'

I guess the moral of this story is don't believe everything you hear or read, as some of you did with my last posting...

Anyhoo, back to my news. On Saturday I flew out to Boston for Becky and Mike's wedding. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it, but thanks to the friendship of Becky and her credit card I made my flight from Keflavik. The flight was uneventful and the inflight entertainment of Icelandicair leaves a lot to be desired. Mind you, I did watch about six episodes of the Simpsons that I hadn't seen before. The inflight meal was also bottom drawer, I'm not sure what it was but it tasted like putrefied shark. Mashed up with poison. I arrived at Logan Int. Airport and managed to get the terminal Bob was arriving at and met her with no problems. we took a taxi to the Wynborne hotel, where we were all staying. Becky had assured us it shouldn't have cost much more that 40-50 bucks. The final price was more like $100!! Then we hit the bar as we were waiting for Stan and Dave to arrive so we could get into he room. We ordered starters that the two of us couldn't finish between us and got drunk and laughed like twats, mainly due to sleep depravity. After the other two arrived we had a final cheeky sherbet and hit the hay.

I slept reasonably well, despite HSBC ringing me at 5.00 in the morning, because I'd been trying to get money out of MY account. Cunts. In the morning the four of us hit the Rockingham Mall to get the full US experience. Dave has never been to the States before and he reckoned it looked a bit like Meadowhall, only smaller. I bet that criticism has never been levelled at an American institution before... We also bumped into Freyer and another Becky, both ex-York students who lived with the Beckster in the first year. After a massive jug of Sam Adams booze we got a taxi back to the hotel to put on our make-up for the big day. Needless to say, Dave and I were ready in about five minutes, Stan was still straightening her hair when the lift arrived for us outside the hotel. We all piled in the car and headed up for the church. This is were the fun began. Becky, being Becky would not be able to have a sombre occasion for her wedding. She arrived after the bridal party had taken their places at the front, being led by her father (who looked very dapper indeed), carrying.... a Ball and Chain!! Brilliant. It only got better. The minister giving the ceremony said at one point 'Mike, for a successful marriage, you only need to remember to say three words..' Becky piped up 'Go Red Sox!!'

The ceremony done, all that remained was for the happy couple to walk out of the church, as she passed my seat, Becky shouted 'Nob End!!' LOL? I nearly weed.

The wedding party headed over to a refurbished disused mill building (That one of Becky's Grandmothers had worked in... How's that for a neat tie-in?). As we headed there, we drove through some of the most beautiful woods I have ever seen. New England in Autumn (or Fall...) is the most colourful and amazing place on Earth. The Autumn in the UK just doesn't match up. When we arrived at the reception, there was a little take home box, with everyone's name on it and a table full of sweets for us to help ourselves to! The whole place was decked out in Autumnal colours and it was a tribute to Becky's sister's good taste, who had planned the whole thing. Dinner was four types of curry, which is very unusual in the US (the caterers where surprised to find it was a Mormon/Catholic wedding, and not a Hindu bash, when they were approached to provide the food...) and a free bar provided us with the fuel we needed for a night's heavy dancing. Which we did in spades. Needless to say it was Dave, Bob, Stan and myself who were first up and we hardly left the dancefloor except to drink more. It really kicked off when the DJ played 'U Can't Touch This'. Dave and I had a breakdance-off, just like the old days at Ziggy's. Even a few of the Yanks got involved. We kept the DJ playing for an hour after he should have finished and I think everyone was surprised at how unreserved Becky's British friends were...

Disapointed to find the bar at the hotel closed, we all retreated back to the room, where Becky, Mike and Allan (Mike's brother) joined us for a cheeky sherbet. By this time I was feeling the full effects of jet lag and was too tired to really take part in the conversation.

After breakfast the next morning, the four of us left for the airport, to drop Bob off and go and see some sites in Boston. We met up with Sam, who was looking very Goth with her dyed black hair. Stan only had about half an hour until her flight, so she got a whistle stop tour, whereas Dave and I got a longer tour. Sam was not the best tour guide in the world, but she did show us where Paul Revere had jumped out of a window, whilst wrestling a bear, that had lightening coming out of it's mouth. He won the match by stabbing the bear repeatedly in the brain with a solid gold sword, which he always carried on his person. At least, that's what I think Sam said.

The flight home was as uneventful as the flight out, except the only entertainment was provided by the showing of the film 'Dreamgirls'. I slept through it all, which is exceptional for me as I never sleep whilst travelling....

And finally, it's time for a new section of this weblog: Alti's Quotes of the week!!

On helping me with some tools I was struggling to carry 'Let me take the weight off your soldiers.'

On the fothcoming war with Iceland over the Credit Crisis 'You'll be going home with your tail between your feet.' and 'You'll be crying yourself to bed.'

Reporting on his and Davið's performance at their last seminar when neither had done the required reading 'He would have got a better response out of a couple chips.'

Chaos

Iceland has descended into chaos this week, with the Kroner spiralling out of control. Yesterday the King of Iceland pop, Bubbi, played an impromptu concert in front of the Althingi to help restore order. Things went from bad to worse as several homeless people stormed the stage and declared a New Order. The Icelandic Police turned up and began firing tear gas and plastic bullets into the crowds, breaking them up and then baton charging the disorientated protesters. Several protesters broke away from the carnage and returned fire with an ex-Russian T55, that had been looted during last weeks piracy outbreaks. The Police were forced to withdraw to the safety of the Althingi and began firing anti-tank rounds from the upper floors. A large caliber gun was manhandled to the square and fire was brought down on the Police force. The Althingi was in such a state of disrepair that it collapsed and killed most of the occupants. The surviving Police officers were dragged out of the rubble and the crowd set upon them, pulling them literally to pieces. All foreigners were being shipped out to Denmark for safety and the last I saw of Reykjavik was a burning heap of rubble, smoke spreading over the battered city as more conflicts between the Icelanders and Police escalated into all-out war.

Hail to the Hammer!!

Work this week has progressed as it usually does; cleaning, photographing, mapping and removing the contexts. Nothing too demanding. There was an upheaval on Wednesday when people moved house, but it all soon settled down. On the way home from work on Thursday evening it began snowing. It was a dry and cold day and it began to settle until it was laid thick over Reykjavik. The snow was still on the ground the next day and half of the site was covered. Practically everyone was moved inside the tent and the day was broken up with the occasional violent snowball fight. It was a little like Njal’s saga but with snow instead of swords. Davið provided the best target as he pretty much stood still and took the bombardment.

There was still a lot of snow and ice on the ground on Friday evening and there was a discussion about whether it would be safe to go into to town with the inebriated walk back being a potential death trap. Jo had been housebound for three days after burning her eye with a piece of ash from her fag and was gasping to get out, so that swayed the opinion and we set off into town. This was the first night the Northern Lights had been visible and their shimmering shapes accompanied us on the walk to town. We first went into Kofi Tómasar Frænda, I hadn’t been in this bar yet, but was very glad to do so. It is a really nice little coffee shop that turns into a bar later on. A very cozy little place indeed. After a cheeky sherbet we headed down to the Celtic Cross, after I forbid going in Kaffibarinn, the place owned by Damon Alburn. Jo, Duncan and I had already been in here before and it was full of pretentious wankers then and probably would be now, so I said a firm NO. In the event, it would have been better to be surrounded by pretentious wankers than surrounded by the fart that someone let off in the Celtic Cross, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. After meeting Angelos here, we all de-camped to Grand Rokk, next door. This was full of men and Jo’s idea of an Icelandic fisherman didn’t really live up to reality when she was chatted up by a fisherman who looked like he had a family of Polish Immigrants living in his face. Duncan and Roz went home and Jo, Angelos and I pressed on into further drinking oblivion. We ended up in some bar were Jo was goosed and chatted up by a bloke singing ‘Take a walk on the wild side’.

On Saturday morning Vala loaned us her car for the weekend and we planned a road trip to see some of Iceland’s beauty. The idea was to head up to the Snæfellsnes Peninsula and have a look at Snæfellsjökull, the massive glacier sitting on top of a mountain. On the side of the road we saw a crater and turned off to go and have a closer look, the road didn’t go anywhere near the crater, but brought close to a field full of tiny Icelandic horses. Roz attempted to tempt them with apples, but the first one wasn’t having any of it and turned its massive nose up at the offered treat. After driving for a couple of hours North of Reykjavik we got onto the peninsular proper and turned up the road by the side of the glacier. On top of the plateau was a frozen lake, which we stopped at and Duncan and I attempted to break the ice by throwing massive stones at it. Jo and Roz looked on in disapproval. We headed on and arrived in the tiny town of Olafsvik where we had a meal in a Hobbit inspired restraint/café. This appeared to be the only place open in Olafsvik, besides a discount clothes store with the surliest staff in the world. You’d think that if you lived in a place like Olafsvik and owned a store that the only regular customers were local teenage girls, the arrival of four foreigners may cause quite a stir of excitement. But, no, Olafsvik seemed to have sapped the life out of the staff and they remained nonplussed at our arrival. I bought a shirt for Becky’s wedding and we left. Leaving the desolation of Olafsvik behind we drove on the North coast of the Peninsular to see if we could get a better view of the Glacier. Before we left the town that time forgot we made an attempt at driving up the 4X4 track that led right by the side of the glacier. After several hairy bends and with the girl’s pleas to turn back we accepted defeat and turned the car round to the metalled road proper. The view from the road as we rounded the tip of the peninsular was fucking mind blowing. The lava fields in front of the mountain range made the whole place look like the Plains of Gorgoroth, eerily shaped rock formations jutted from the ground to add a strange and disturbing sense to the beauty of the glacier. We stopped at the crater Saxholl and climbed to the top for an even greater view of Snæfellsjökull. The vastness and intense immenseness of the glacier made everything in life seem so little and insignificant that it was quite a refreshing experience to gaze on it. The sun was setting as we headed back around the glacier and made tracks for home. Hopes to see the Northern lights were dashed as clouds moved in and obscured the sky.

Back at the flat in Reykjavik I readied myself for another evening out on the tiles. This time it was for a purpose. I had been planning all week to see Tyr, the Faroese Viking Metal band on their mini tour of Iceland. They were playing in Nasa in Reykjavik with four other bands. I hadn’t been in Nasa before and had only stood in the queue for a few minutes, so to actually go in the place was another first for me. I met Hrafnkell and Stephan during the first band’s (Perla) rather boring Prog Metal set. The next band, Dark Harvest were OK, they used to be an instrumental only band (Hrafnkell told me) although tonight they had a singer, but they played some of their older instrumental songs which were by far the better songs in their set. After Dark Harvest had cleared the stage Mammút played, Stephan told me he had done a review of their CD for the newspaper 24 Hours and gave it a four out of five. I said why wasn’t it a five out of five? He said, then they have something to work for on their next album… The average age of Mammút was 17 and they were mainly girls. Their performance was a bit lackluster, but maybe this was more to do with the placing of an Indiepop band in an otherwise very METAL line up. They had a few good tunes but weren’t really to my taste. The last of the support acts was Severed Crotch, who’s name led to a discussion between myself and Hrafnkell about stupid band names. Despite their name, they were the best band on the bill that night. Totally brutal death metal, which really got the moshpit whipped up into a fury. It was like the glory days of the Queen’s Hall in Bradford back in the early nineties all over again… Tyr came on and did their thing, and did it very well, but… I still don’t like them. I have been trying to like Tyr for years, ever since their first album came out. They have everything that I should like: They are Pagan, they sing about Vikings, they are from a Norse heritage, they are named after the Viking God of War, they have epic songs infused with Faroese folk songs and are TOTALLY METAL! But try as I might, I just don’t like them. It’s something about the guitar squeals and diddly diddly solos that I find most nauseating. The three of us left together and headed for Hrafnkell’s car where we gave Stephan a lift to the next road over (go figure, it would have been quicker for him to walk to the next bar than have us drive him there, but he took the lift…). Hrafnkell and I went for the now obligatory Klukingerburger and he dropped me off home. I was wanting an early night as Duncan, Roz, Jo and I planned on leaving early in the morning to get the most out of the car, so I was home by three…
After what seemed like two hours sleep my alarm woke me up and we hit the road in Vala’s car. This trip was to go see the Volcano Hekla. This majestic beast has the name ‘the Hooded One’ as it is always shrouded in clouds. It has blown its top several times in recorded history and most of the time it is fucking disastrous for Iceland. She takes no prisoners and one of the eruptions was so bad that the Danish government considered moving the surviving Icelandic population to Zealand rather than try to reclaim the land. Luckily for us, she remained dormant throughout the day and we didn’t have to do anything as extreme as relocating to Denmark. We headed north of Hekla and sought out the farmstead oat Stöng, which was buried by one of Hekla’s eruptions in 1104. It was also Iceland’s first archaeological excavation carried out in the 1930’s. The road to the site is almost non existent and the volcanic ash that covers the area makes it feel like a post-apocalyptic environment. It’s like the Hills Have Eyes and you expect to round the corner to find groups of mutants breaking open human femurs to suck the marrow out. I think we were lucky to get out of there without our heads being stuck on spikes like some grisly trophy for a wandering band of Mad Max style land pirates. The site is covered with a building and preserved with the addition of modern turf walls. The farmstead is surprisingly large inside and would have been rather cozy, with the six foot wide turf walls in place. Roz mistook the pantry for the toilet and this led to a long discussion about the idiot boy Olaf shitting in the butter.

Over the main road and down a better made road was the reconstruction of the farmstead building and the little chapel at Þóðveldisbærinn (try saying that when you’re sober…). Unfortunately it was closed for the winter and we couldn’t get inside, despite banging on the front door for five minutes. Maybe the idiot boy Olaf had lost his keys. After this short excursion we headed down the road towards the hot springs at Reykholt. We had been led to believe it would be a natural rock pool with cascading hot water flowing freely as you sit and marvel at the spectacle of the Northern Lights. The reality was rather disappointing. What awaited us at the end of the road was a grotty swimming pool that was closed for the winter. We broke in and had a look around, then decided it would better to leave and head back to Reykjavik. Stopping at Hveragerði for the worst and most expensive burger in the history of burgers we decided to head down to the Blue Lagoon as Jo and I haven’t been there yet. The place is quite expensive but worth it, in my opinion. It’s a state of the art swimming experience of the highest caliber. It’s quite something to swim in a pool, look down and not be able to see your body because of the thickness of the nutrients in the water. After nearly two hours of being battered by the wind and rain, covering ourselves in some white substance that is supposed to knock years off and sweating it out with Germans in the sauna, we headed back home all dead beat but satisfied. Here endeth the lesson.