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.