The Oubliettes of Brodsworth

Here I present the second in a very occasional series of guest blogs, this one comes from the computer of David Menear of Hull University (if you can really call it a University...). So sit back, tighten your belts, relax and enjoy...

The Oubliettes of Brodsworth

Yes I was a survivor of Brodsworth 2008, one of only a handful to escape the gruelling punishment that Alex, or Grupenfuhrer Alex as he liked to be known, would mete out over the three weeks Hull University were there. I remember the first day clearly as yesterday....
The rusting minibus trundled out to the site where we would get our first archaeological experience digging trenches in a medieval graveyard, mindless nervous chatter to cover the empty silences, to banish the thoughts of the tales we had heard of Herr Alex. The first sight of the bespectacled beast brought each member of the team quickly to attention.

Grupenfuhrer Alex looking for victims for his cult

‘You will only speak in zee German accent’ he growled at us, blithely pushing aside his revolver and WW1 airplane book. His near balding head catching the sun, his eyes tilted menacingly at the group and selected a random member, Ben- now lost to history/Brodsworth. ‘You will be zee bum boy, imitating ze great teacher, me!’. We had heard of Alex cherry picking people out of groups and humiliating them by making them dress up in Ninja outfits and making them goose walk for his pleasure. We could never expect Ben to be the same way ever again.
Lining each person up against the church side, he drove his car close to the line of students and proceeded to play a 30 minute rendition of Burzum and ‘Ninja metal’ on a tape player. He said he was going to break Iceland with his music, become a megastar and get a model girlfriend. Inside, we all laughed at the handlebar moustached man in front of us, but we did not dare show it outwardly. After showing us last year’s workers and what had become of them, he wanted us to dig a trench section by the end of the day or else face the wrath of ‘Ninja Metal’.

Previous volunteers

After a hard days graft, with Alex disappearing every 20 minutes to the tea room nearby (whilst he made us work throughout our dinner break), he said we had finished for the day. Little did we know that this did not include Ben. The last we saw of him was Alex leading him to his menacing Citroen car, parked right in the woods.
Back at the base camp Alex prowled around the main utility building, daring anyone to verse him at Monopoly or any other assorted board game. Watching the man, nay beast, play at such a game you could not help wonder what exactly went wrong in his life. How could a man, aged 30 +, take such great cackling desire out of beating poor students, why did he revel in it so much that he dressed the losers up?

Alex’s deluded jokes and one of his many victims

Throughout the whole stay, every night we often heard a wolf how along with the shouting of ‘Ninja is for life’ at midnight. Each morning another volunteer had ‘disappeared’, their tent ripped to shreds by either claws or ninja knives. Each morning we looked into our lecturer’s eyes, the other trench supervisors and outside volunteers for help but each looked away, as though there something we were not meant to speak about. It was like something out of Darkplace, just something we had to accept and not mention.
I could see the tension that Grupenfuhrer Alex was having on the place; I could see it on the ashen faces of Helen and Colin. The biggest effect was on Angela, one day after breakfast she just snapped. Throwing aside the worn monopoly board, running out into the grounds she screamed and ran head first into the minibus. This was the effect that Alex: Titan of Terror, the Queen of Queer, was having. Surely I thought, as I finished my toast then looked at Angela’s caved in head, it could not last.

The Chainsaw was out of sight

The penultimate day. I had rang home begging for a lift back on the morrows eve. Having managed to avoid Herr Alex by cleaning artefacts and bones (I hesitate to wonders whose), I gamely limped back (Alex had also taken one of my crutches as a cruel joke) to the cabin. Feeling a sudden heavy clawed paw on my shoulder I knew it was he. “Are ze coming for food and drank Frau David?” I literally could not resist, not least because he threatened to beat me and MY mother up. The hairy bastard.

We eloped from the base and made our way to the local club, a place where they were as mad as to serve Sunday Lunch on a Thursday, it makes me sick too dear reader. We sat opposite each other and ate, his little red face gulping each piece of meat that his claws threw up to his face, his spectacles rattling with the joy of eating the bloody steak. I tried to engage him in music, something I knew he had a passion, but it was no good. He kept waffling on about Bajrs this and Bajrs that. I think he may have recently eaten some. I kept picking at the steak I had chosen, something was not quite right about it, something was off. Admittedly it might have been the colour of the steak or the tuft of hair on the side of the plate. But I could not refuse not eating it, especially since I had known Alex never takes anyone to dinner.
As the last morsel of food popped into my mouth a mad cackle from Herr Alex emanated forth, he tugged at his moustache, pulled his trousers down and made obscene gestures. I could make neither hide nor tail of what he was saying but one word was getting through...“gegessener Freund Ben!!”. Jesus. This is what Alex wanted, this is how he lived his life. The last I saw of Herr Alex he was running full pelt towards the nearby woods screaming as he went. I had to stay behind and vomit my best buddy back up.

His favourite food, steak, human steak (preferably rare)

It is with an ashen face that I find myself contemplating returning to Brodsworth this Summer, I know the horrors ahead and I still see the devastation around me every day when I’m in lectures with less and less students in the seats. I have to face Grupenfuhrer Alex once again.

Lions 10 Christians 0

Friday rolled around with no trouble in sight, after work I basically relaxed and watched Seinfeld with John, Craig and Marcus, into the early hours. I had half a plan to go out around York but it didn't really flesh out and I went to bed instead... Saturday brought the spectacle of the York Roman festival. York, being a historical city, likes to celebrate its past with various festivals throughout the year, one of the biggest being the Viking festival in February. Thousands of hairy bastards descend on York, take over the city centre and reenact battles in the museum gardens and end it all with boat burnings down the Ouse. It lasts for days; the streets are awash with rapine and pillage as York celebrates the Medieval equivalent of the modern day Hells Angels. Only without the Harley's.

Holy Shit!!! It's the Vikings!!! Run!!!

Not so the Romans. Roman reenactors are harder to come by. The York Roman Festival seemed to consist of six Romans, twelve Celts (who were in fact Viking reenactors press-ganged into Celtic service for the weekend) and three Germans selling overpriced garlic bread. Perhaps more people want to rape and pillage than learn how to march in formation and carry out sword drill. John seemed to enjoy himself, he would, he's a Romanist. I thought it was quaint. What I did like was when the very nice lady at the Roman Medical tent was giving us a talk on the various medical instruments the Romans used. She was talking for ages and we were just standing there nodding our heads and not saying anything. There were no pauses in her flow and I was wondering how long we could keep her standing there and talking, by us not interrupting. I know what it's like to talk to the public and when no-one asks questions you feel as though you have to keep talking even if you are running out of things to say. I was playing a game in my head to see if we could make her carry on talking for about three hours. Luckily for her there was a pause and someone said 'thank you, that was very interesting.' or some-such phrase which ended her talk. I was disappointed that it only lasted about ten minutes. Next time another opportunity like this occurs I'm going to time it properly.

John, enjoying the Romans, cos that's how he rolls...

On Sunday the Roman 'Festival' was concluded with the screening of the restored version of Spartacus. I've not seen this film since I was very young, but it's one of those films you see bits of but never manage to sit down and watch from beginning to end, so you feel as though you've seen it. What I can say is, is that that reissued version is brilliant. A real tribute to the brilliance that was Kubrick. Spartacus himself becomes very much a footnote to the power play and politics in Rome that was cut out of the original cinematic version. It's great, the bad guy, Crassus is actually working against corruption and trying to bring back the glory days of Rome, the seemingly sympathetic and helpful Roman Gracchus is completely corrupt and taking advantage of the rot that is infecting the civilisation. Nothing is black and white, not even in Ancient Rome... To end it all I'm still amazed that no one stood up at the end and shouted 'I'm Spartacus!'

Would the real Spartacus plaese stand up?

From the Heart of Hell I Stab at Thee

The Wednesday off meant that I could go into town and buy cheap envelopes for my ever expanding EBay empire. I have finally started selling the Osprey Books I bought last year and already they are showing promise for a lucrative return. Over breakfast on Thursday morning I looked at the weather news in York and saw that it said heavy rain in the morning, light rain in the early afternoon and heavy rain for the rest of the day. We got to work and the rain started. It belted it down and soon we were sliding all over the site like Torvill and Dean, Steve, the Project Director asked me if I'd seen the weather and I answered truthfully what I had seen that morning. With this information he decided to close site for the day. We packed up, got all the tools into the cabin, locked up and... the rain stopped. The clouds lifted and the sun came out. By this time all the students had disappeared so we couldn't go back to work. The first thing Steve said to me on Friday was 'I'm not talking to you'.

Area 2; 21st May 2009; 9.45am

Cleo the cat hates me. There is a cat in the house and she hates me. I can't do anything to change her mind. I try to feed her, pick her up to stroke her, play loud Black Metal at her, shout at her. Nothing works. But she's all over John like a rash. She can't get enough of him and he hates cats. It just goes to show you how fickle women are.

Evil, pure evil...

Pot Noodle Protests

Helena and Joel came up to York last weekend, I met up with them both along with Bert, Claire and some guy called Jim. Hel and Joel had gotten engaged on Saturday night, so congratulations were in order. I met them about five and we were drinking all night, slightly interrupted by a trip to an Italian restaurant. Finally Hel, Joel, Jim and I made it to the Ackhorne, by far my favourite pub in York. As a happy coincidence there was the famous Sunday night quiz on. I had completely forgotten about it and was whooping with joy when I realised! We were all pretty much worse for wear by this time and this only added to the hilarity of the quiz. The woman doing the questions was sat out on the patio and was miked up so all of us inside could hear. As she started the questions there was a constant buzzing from the microphone, it was like under going torture whilst sitting an exam. As the evening progressed, the mike got worse and worse until it was flicking on and off. It was like the quiz was hosted by a stuttering quiz master. There were questions like this; 'What did Wa______ ____vive in 19__ with only h_ ____?' and 'th_ __ kn__ as ___ in Canada?' We were all literally pissing ourselves, but then it got better; She asked a question about John Lennon and Yoko ONE. I couldn't believe my ears. We were crying laughing by this time. When she came round after and asked if anyone wanted questions repeating I asked her for the John Lennon question and she repeated Yoko ONE. The table next to us asked her the same thing and got the same reply, they too were on the floor with laughter. This was the best quiz I have been to for a long time, even since the times when we would go to the Ackhorne quiz and the landlord, Jack, would give us answers and we'd still lose.

Yoko One and Yoko Two?

I crashed out in a drunken state and was awoken by John at 2.00am unable to get into the house as he'd left his keys on his desk in Bromsgrove. That boy is a danger to himself. The next morning was the start of the new job, it took us quite some time to negotiate the York morning traffic, but we duly arrived to be confronted by the sight of nearly one hundred students. It was a pretty frightening prospect I can tell you. It was like being confronted by Zulu warriors at Rourke's Drift. As it goes it is the dossiest £14 per hour I have ever worked for. We don't start until 9.30, finish at 4.30, have three breaks and all I have to do is tell the students which end of a trowel to use. Today it lashed it down so we finished early and I also found out that we don't work on Wednesdays. If only it lasted longer than three weeks...

Students Sir, thousands of them...

After returning from work we saw that John's car had been broken into with nothing stolen. The fact it wasn't even stolen and burnt out after stint of joyriding was further insult to the injury. I think the crime may have been tied in with the fact that John had ripped up and stuck up a BNP poster that had come through the post. The indication being that we didn't vote BNP at this house. The problem was, from a distance, i.e. driving past the house, it looked like a normal BNP poster the indication being that we DID vote BNP at this house. John's stance against racists just ended up making us look like racists. This is what I have to deal with on a daily basis. The fucking idiot.

Genesis of Terror

My call for guest blogs has been finally answered. Daniel Salter, former owner of the Pylon Cafe, more recently of Salter's Travelling Pigeon Loft and finally lodger at Treeton Towers has penned the following tale.

GENESIS OF TERROR

November 23rd, 1990

The stench of woodbines and cheap coffee hit me full in the face as I first approached the front door, and nearly knocked me off my feet into a nearby dustbin overflowing with dead leaves and despair.
Having parked my Sinclair C5 round the corner, and checked my map for exact directions, I had eventually stumbled upon the Sotheran residence with very little difficulty, though a passing old lady had spat maliciously in my face as I swung open the gate, for reasons lost in the gloomy darkness and the fierce wind.
I shut the gate behind me, turned up my collar, and pressed on down the rocky path.
The agency had warned me that I would be out of my depth here but I was too young and reckless to heed their advice. One day, they had said, I would learn. One day.
I pressed the doorbell, stood back, and shivered in the relentless biting cold.
The sound of the first latch being drawn back startled me, and I stepped back further, narrowly avoiding a small mountain of cat shit. I was edgy tonight. I quickly pulled out my hip flask, took a reassuring gulp of White Lightning, and waited for the final latch to be drawn back.

The door slowly edged open, with a piercing howling creak that seemed to rise from the bowels of hell itself. The figure that now stood before me, enveloped in darkness, was an elderly gentleman with a heavily lined, craggy face and a bushy white beard. A streak of pale moonlight illuminated bits of twig and bark protruding from the beard. He observed me with disdain, and sent another icy shiver down my spine. “Yes?” he boomed.
I cleared my throat, and tried desperately to drum up some confidence in my voice. “Mr Sotheran?” I enquired. “I’m from the agency. I’m here about your son, Alexander. You made an appointment last Thursday.”
The tall tree-like figure stared gravely down at me but said nothing. Eventually, he reluctantly beckoned me in, and led me into a dark damp kitchen, lit only by a candle on an ancient wooden dining table. I placed my briefcase on the table, and reached into my inside coat pocket for my business card.
“My name is Daniel Lee Salter,” I said, offering the card to Mr Sotheran. “I’m your appointed representative from the Lifestyle Agency. If you will allow me, Mr Sotheran, it is my intention to become Alexander’s Lifestyle Doctor and move this unfortunate situation forward until we have reached a satisfactory conclusion that all parties are happy with.”
Mr Sotheran grunted non-commitedly, and ignored my offered card, which I placed back inside my coat. There was an awkward silence. The air was becoming thick with heavy gloom, and I began to wonder if I should just make my excuses and leave.
Suddenly, he clicked his bark-like fingers, and a monkey butler, dressed in a dashing red waistcoat, emerged from the shadows. “Take this gentleman to the Lower Basement, he’s come to sort our Alexander out,” said Mr Sotheran. The Monkey Butler nodded obediently, and Mr Sotheran turned away to face the kitchen window. He picked up a box of matches, lit a giant pipe, and stared vacantly at the view. It was clear our conversation was over.


I picked up my briefcase, and followed the Monkey Butler down an endless winding corridor, leading deeper and deeper into the bowels of the house. Eventually, the monkey came to rest at a large pink door. He rapped at the door three times and scuttled off back into the gloom, leaving me alone with my ever-increasing sense of regret and misfortune.
The stifling silence continued to hang over me like a black rain cloud. There was no movement, no sign of life. I took another swig from my hip flask, and opened the door.
A single naked light bulb illuminated a small, untidy bedroom. A giant poster of Cliff Richard had been amateurishly stuck to the dank walls with blu-tac, whilst a row of wonky bookshelves displayed an extensive collection of large oversized tatty paperback books, every single one of which seemed to be about the Eurovision Song Contest.
In a dark corner of the room, a spotty youth with a mop of curly hair was sat on a swivel-chair, staring intently at a green monitor, and occasionally pushing at a joystick that he was cradling in his sweaty hands.
“Alexander?” I asked, tentatively. There was no answer. The only sound in the room was the monotonous drone of what sounded like an aeroplane which seemed to be coming from the monitor.
“Alexander?” I asked again. This time, I moved much closer into the room and found myself in-between the piercing eyes of the youth, and the monitor on which he was so engaged. The effect of this interruption was electric.
“Gaaaargh!!” he screamed, throwing the joystick down on the floor in rage. “You’ve ruined it, you idiot! You bloody bloody shitting idiot! I was going to get the highest score ever and you’ve ruined it!”
He leapt up from the chair and threw himself onto a small bed with a Thundercats quilt cover and matching pillow cases. The only noises in the room were Alexander’s wailing sobs and the continuing drone from the Amstrad Flight Simulator.
I took the liberty of switching off the Amstrad, and sat in the vacated swivel-chair. “Alexander,” I said, gently. “My name is Danny, and I’m your new Lifestyle Doctor. Your father asked me to come and visit you, so that we can work on some exciting new lifestyle changes together, to make you more interesting. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
Eventually, the sobbing subsided, and Alexander sat up sulkily on the bed, clutching a tiny plastic figure of He-Man for comfort. “Well…as long as it doesn’t take too long,” he mumbled. “The Crystal Maze is on in a bit.”
“Our first appointment will only take a couple of minutes,” I assured him. “We can just get some of the basics out of the way to begin with. In fact, let’s start with your name. Do you like Alexander?”
“Yes!” he barked without hesitation. “I’m named after Alexander the Great. He was great, and I’m great too, ask anybody. Ask anybody about how great I am and they’ll tell you.”
“Hmmm. Well, it’s a bit of a long name isn’t it? Why don’t we try shortening it to something more fun and snappy? How about we just call you Alex from now on, would you like that?”
The youth simply shrugged, which I was happy to embrace as an acceptance of sorts, so I pressed on further. “Now then Alex, your father told us over the phone that you want to be a Hairdresser when you leave school, is that right?”
“Yes,” he replied, still fidgeting with He-Man. “I’m good at hair.”
“Hmmm, it’s a bit gay though isn’t, Alex? Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?” I glanced around the room for inspiration, and my eyes came to rest on an Indiana Jones comic which had been thrown on the floor. “Indiana Jones, now he had an interesting job. He was an Archaeologist, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t you like to do something exciting like that?”
Alex simply shrugged again. “Don’t know,” he said.
“Good, good, I’ll enroll you in a course first thing tomorrow morning. Don’t you feel better already? Now then, What kind of music do you like, Alex?”
At this point, the youth’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Cliff!” he bellowed excitedly, gazing adoringly at the large poster. “Cliff Richard! He’s my hero. I’ve got every cassette he ever made.”
His eyes suddenly narrowed. “It was an outrage when he didn’t win the Eurovision back in 1968. His song was miles better than that Spanish crap, everybody knew that. If I had a Time Machine, I would travel back to 1968 and kill all the other contestants to make sure that Cliff took his rightful place as Eurovision King, and saviour of the people.”

“Hmmm. Well to be honest, Alex, I don’t think your father approves of this infatuation with a wimpy Christian virgin. Why don’t we try something a bit heavier?”
I flipped open my briefcase and pulled out a handful of cassettes. “Here’s a new exciting band called Monster Magnet,” I explaining, tossing him a tape. “Put it on, you might grow to like it. And when you’ve finished with that, we can move onto a bit of Norwegian Black Metal, that’ll make you much more interesting, don’t you agree?”
Alex took out a Cliff Richard tape from his dirty black Amstrad hi-fi unit, threw it on the floor, and clumsily inserted the new Monster Magnet tape.
As the first chimes of “Death Bastard Baby Strangling Window Licker” came blaring out of the cheap tinny speakers, I moved onto the subject of image.
“Right then, Alex. Finally, I want to talk about your clothes and your hair. Your pink dungarees and knitted jumper are very fetching, but I think there’s a more stylish and innovative look that we might be able to go for.”
I pulled out a collection of black tops and black trousers and black socks from my briefcase. “Why don’t we go for the nothing-but-black look?” I suggested. “I think that might suit you. Hey, and what about this?” I pulled out a long black wig. “Try this on whilst you’re at it – it’ll do until you’re able to grow your own hair long. That curly mop of yours is so 1973, I’m giving you the future here, Alex.”
Whilst Alex went to hide in the cupboard to change into his new clothes and wig, I briefly turned the Amstrad back on and played his rubbish Flight Simulator for five minutes, easily thrashing his puny high-scores without even trying.
Eventually, Alex emerged from the cupboard and admired himself in the opposite wall-length mirror. It was certainly a striking transformation.
Conscious of the time, and knowing that I had parked the Sinclair C5 on double yellow lines, I brought our first appointment to a close. “I’ll call again next week Alex,” I said, cheerily. “And we’ll work on this some more.”
Alex said nothing but continued to stare into the mirror.
Sensing that I wasn’t going to get a proper goodbye, I packed up my briefcase and made for the door. Something made me turn back and look at my client one last time before I departed. Something felt wrong.
As the thundering noise of Monster Magnet continued to pollute the air, Alex was still staring into the mirror. But his expression had changed. His eyes betrayed a new sense of purpose. A small, almost mocking smile began to form on his lips. “So,” he said slowly, seemingly addressing himself in the mirror. “It begins.”
A sudden chill swept into the room, and an unfathomable twinge of anxiety in my heart. I hurried out of the room, back up the winding corridor, and into the dark, cold kitchen, where Mr Sotheran was still staring out of the window, puffing on his pipe.
He turned to face me, and for the first time, I saw the horror in his tree-like eyes. “My God,” he breathed. “What have you done? In the name of all that is holy, I ask you, what have you done?”
I fled the house, and jumped into the Sinclair C5, never looking back for a second. I knew then that I would never return to this place.
There was a new menacing chill in the air that night, and it clutched at my heart with it’s fierce, icy grasp.
I sped off into the night, as fast as my crap vehicle would carry me, and considered a career change.

No Way! Norway!

On Friday I called back to Rotherham from York to go and see Electric Wizard in Manchester. You work out the logistics for this journey yourself... They, Electric Wizard were great and the first band Xela was a noise core thingy. Basically some guy with a load of distortion pedals and feedback. Now, I find this kind of stuff quite interesting, but I'm never sure what power it has when 'performed' live. I like the 'band' Tenhornedbeast, but I wouldn't want to listen to his stuff in a room surrounded by other beardies stroking their chins and saying things like 'Hmmm, I like how he changed the pitch ever so slightly there...' I think this kind of thing should stay in the house. The journey there and back was dominated by myself and Carl having a two hour discussion on why he shouldn't believe everything he reads and sees on the Internet to do with the vast Global Conspiracy Theory of the New World Order. I love Carl to bits but he falls hook line and sinker for anything that stands against modern society. I was kind of playing Devil's advocate and winding him up, but when I suggested he get an allotment to grow his own food so the government couldn't poison him with 'toxins', he dismissed it out of hand saying it would get trashed by the local scumbags. I told him to get one in a nicer area which he dismissed because he would have to walk half an hour to reach. I don't know why that is such a problem for him it's not like he does anything else all day except smoke dope and watch documentaries on the Bilderburg Group.

Fight the New World Order, get an allotment!

After being woken up at some ungodly hour on Saturday morning by my parents setting off fireworks, by the sounds of it. I dragged myself out for the traumatic experience of getting a hair cut. I hate haircuts; I never know what I want or what looks good on my head, it's like a fashion blind spot for me. I'm not the most fashion conscience anyway so this is like a minefield. But what I really hate is that I have to take my glasses off whilst the barber goes at me. I am as blind as a mole so all I can do is sit there with my eyes spinning in their sockets trying to focus on something and hope to God they are doing a good job. There was once a traumatic experience in York when I asked for 'a little off the back and sides' and ended up with a massive pudding bowl that ran all around my head. I looked like the Beatles when they were playing clubs in Hamburg. In this instance I paid for the butchery, ran down to Argos, bought a set of clippers and ran to Ross' place and asked him to shave it all off, eliminating the horror. I usually shave it all off but I've been growing it back since Christ's Mass and it needed treating properly, so I had to suffer the humiliation of asking the very nice lady to do 'what she could with it'. In the event is was quick, cheap and looks better than I could have done it myself.

I knew I should have been worried when I saw this boy coming out of the Barbers before me...

Now, onto the event of the year, the culmination of the Musical calender, the brightest stars of instrumentation that Europe has to offer... The Eurovision Song Contest! Lauren threw a party in honour of it. It was excellent, there was a whole bunch of us there and loads of food and booze, just like a good Eurovision party should be! I love Eurovision night so much as it is the only night you can be incredibly racist and get away with it. I mean what other night can you spend the evening screaming 'Cheese eating surrender monkeys' at the French contestant or laughing at the Moldavian gypsies with their loud 1980's clothes and beetroot juice smeared faces. It's not every day you get to shout 'who won the fucking war?' at the German entry or pour scorn on a whole host of wops, dagos, bog trotters, commies, grease balls, ice monkeys or babuskas without repercussion. The funniest thing I heard all night was when the British entrant was performing, Jaime texted me with 'this jade's got hair'. In the event, I always support Norway, it's that whole Black Metal thing. They have done me proud over the years and this year was no exception. We all chucked some cash into a pot and picked a country, who's ever country came top got the pot. It just so happens this year Norway won, so I scooped myself a tasty £35! Which was all quickly spent in the Corporation after the party...

There were no wars in the Middle East this year, so even Jemini could have scored more than Nil Points in this years Eurovision...

I Wanna Be Your Dog

John let me out of the cage long enough for us to attend this morning's meeting for the job beginning on Monday. Mind you, he walked me there on a chain so I wouldn't run off into the crowds and start pleading for help from the passers-by. Steve was late for the meeting so we hung around getting to know one another. In the event I already knew two of the other supervisors, Claire (from the same Undergraduate Year) and Kate, and I kind of knew Gareth from my undergraduate days. Matt had a face that was familiar and the other guy, Sam, I think, had worked for WYAS, Oxford and Network so probably knows a load of people I know as well. This is indicative of the very small world of archaeology. Steve duly arrived and gave us a two hour introduction to the site what we expect to find and such. It felt like a first year Seminar, what with being back in the King's Manor watching a power point presentation about archaeology. Only I'd forgotten to bring my homework. In actual fact I was the only one that turned up without a notebook, which just goes to show how FUCKING COOL I am. I am so FUCKING COOL I even had my feet on the desk and was smoking a cigarette and wearing shades.

How FUCKING COOL am I? As FUCKING COOL as this FUCKING COOL DUDE!

After a quick walk around town to pick up some new boots and such I got back to the house to find the cleaner, yes the cleaner, finishing off. This place is so big it needs a woman to come round every Wednesday to clean the place for two hours even when the owner is away. Who is here (apart from me and John) to make a mess that it requires cleaning once a week? I am betting she doesn't even clean anything, she just sits about listening to Radio Two and takes the money and runs. I almost caught her in the act today however. She appeared to be doing nothing with the radio blaring away. Stuck for an excuse she told me she 'only had to polish the brass' then she'd be off. A likely story.*

How John leaves the house before the cleaner arrives

*None of this paragraph is true, except the boots, it's a comic criticism of something that doesn't happen. She does a great job.

In the Dungeon of Dr Clay

South of Heaven

My new computer came through the other day, two days after I bought it on line. It's spot on. It has a full keyboard, including the number 5 key, which my old computer didn't have after a fit of rage. It even has a web cam so I can take pictures like this:

The possibillities are endless

Besides that, I called over to Danny and Jaime's house on Sunday, after a nice cup of tea I drove us all over to the Hind, where we met Juliette and Barnsey. Barnsey was telling me about a loophole he'd discovered in the Hind's food service. The last time he was in he'd ordered a cheese and onion sandwich, only to discover that he was paying the extortionate price of £3.50 for two slices of bread with a bit of cheese and onion in between. Irked at this he bought himself a packet of cheese and onion crisps, then noticed that a breadcake was a positive bargin at 40p. He duly purchased two and they arrived with a tray of condiments and a message from the manager to 'Enjoy your meal!'. Stuffing the crisps into the breadcakes, hey presto! he had two cheese and onion sandwiches for about a third of the cost. I tell you this because we did the same trick again on Sunday and had a sumptious meal of crisps sandwiches for the princly sum of 80p (inlcuding crisps). Try it, let's stop Pubs ripping us off!!

Buy a Crisp Sandwich today! Any flavour you want (depending on the crisps available...)

The rest of the week was filled with a meeting with Chris and Tim about archaeological business and such, which was gatecrashed by Angela and Lauren. I had to sit through two tedious hours of Angela and Tim's stories of Syrian Tell excavations and Cyprian Stone Age axes. Good God, you would NEVER catch me going abroad to dig.

I'm off to York in a couple of hours. I'm filled with dread as I will be living with the Evil mastermind Dr John Clay. I have no idea what cruel and unusual torture he has in store for me, but I haven't heard a word from Craig since he 'called in' to Clay's house three weeks ago.

Fun Day at John Clay's

Ricky-ticky-tarvy

Fuck me, for some reason Jo's guest posting got 79 hits, nearly double the most I've ever got. Bitch. Anyway, I've thought this may add a bit of interest to the old blog, so I'm opening it up for guest writers. I did tell Al Sithee that he couldn't so now I look like a right tit saying that anyone can, but there you go. It's all about the ratings...

A quick update on what I've been up to over the past couple of days. Friday was spent in the dead confines of Rotherham town centre. Mark, Dave and I went out and did our usual round of Number Ten, the Charters, FUBAR and finally SNAFU. The place was empty, it must have been due to last weekend being bank holiday coinciding with the first of the month payday. Rotherhamites are nothing if not careful with their money. King for a weekend, skint for a month. I left early as I just thought I was throwing good money down the drain.

Rotherham on Friday night...

Aimee's youngest Dylon was having his six birthday party on Saturday evening and Juliette had invited me along to the adult section of the precedings. As nobody parties harder than six year olds, I said I would, also it would be a good chance to meet Aimee and Juliette's kids. I decided against wearing my crotchless clown costume after that whole 'business' at the school fete last summer. Aimee had hired a bouncy castle and the only thing stopping me going on it was the fact I had stuffed myself stupid previously and feared getting sick all down myself and all over the kids. I've noted from previous occasions that this kind of behaviour doesn't go down too well with parents. And the police. After several children had suffered compound fractures to the skull and vertebrae, the bouncy castle man came and took the bouncy castle away at six, leaving a wake of weeping children after him (The bastard really seemed to enjoy his job) and we all got down to the difficult task of drinking copiously whilst sitting in the twilight pretending it was still as warm as it was four hours previously. Anyhow, I duly met Aimee's other half, Martin, her next door neighbours, her kids, Andy her brother was also there with his other half and Juliette's kids, the latter I gave a good look over to make sure they bore me no resemblance. I ended up getting wasted and boring Aimee and Martin to death with tales of First World War archaeology. My job certainly sounds far more interesting than it actually is...

If only DB Entertainment supplied this kind of Bouncy Castle...

Letter from Jo

I have taken the unprecedented step of allowing someone else control of this weblog. I asked Jo to write a piece on her time in Iceland, in the event she's just written about me; which says more about her than me, I think. I would like to say that all the views and opinions expressed in the following are Jo's and Jo's alone. So with no further wittering from me here we go...

The other day I mentioned to Alex “Oooh, I should do a guest Blog for you” to which he jumped wholeheartedly upon the idea and has since forth been harassing me on a daily basis. So here it is, my “Ode to Alex: September 2008 - May 2009”… hold on to your seats, this is a whirlwind of excitement…

My first memory of Alex is when, having managed to locate myself within the vast metropolis in which I had been deposited, I arrived at the Alphingi site on a cold Wednesday afternoon at the end of September 2008. What I remember is that pretty much the first thing he said to me was “Do you want to come swimming tonight? Roz and Duncan are coming too. Do you want to come? It will be FUN”. Anyway, once the initial pervations were out the way and the eternal mantra “still not drunk enough” had been firmly established Alex and I set about forming a pretty firm, sturdy, salt of the earth, wub woo-ing friendship of which only snoring and the threat of the “mask which stirs latent memories” could undermine.

Drunk…

In many ways this friendship probably owed lots to the fact that we were both in our 30’s and were also both single. This is NOT the done thing in Iceland but our social stigma was unfortunately revealed to everyone one day in October when Hrappi asked us “What would you do if… you reached 30 and were single”. Our answers consequently necessitated that we spend October in the “Clinic for Unusual Non-attached Thirtysomething Saddo‘s (CUNTS)” for a period of quarantine and analysis. During this time we bonded over games of ping pong, Rolo’s and the ‘History of Metal According to Alex: Parts 1 - 89’. When we left the clinic we found the entire world economy had collapsed as a consequence of Iceland, which was no doubt a ‘Butterfly Effect’ bought on by the shock waves reverberating from Hrappi exposure of our aged unattached status. High in my Icelandic regrets (alongside the distinct absence of Viking rapage) was the fact that our freakdom didn’t make it into the gossip magazine next to the “swampinfecktion” (thrush) advert.

Swampinfection is probably not something that effects single 30 somethings much

Following our release from CUNTS great days followed. During this time we were living in the Jesus flat outside of central Reykjavik. I loved Jesus and made my very own shrine outside my bedroom to the lovely man. But Alex, blasphemous child that he is, came home one day and inverted poor old Je-Je. Despite the negative karma this inevitably created we still managed to have a lot of… FUN! There was the short lived cinema night, the even shorter lived (at least on my part) swimming pool night and perhaps the night with greatest longevity… Pizza Wednesday. Oh how we loved Pizza Wednesday. We’d always fight about “warming” food as opposed to “cooking” it, followed by a discussion of why Alex had bought shit cardboard pepperoni again. But after this culinary foreplay we would settle down to an smattering of Ramsey‘s Kitchen Nightmares, a sprinkling of Americas Next Top Model followed by a smorgasbord of How to Look Good Naked. Every Wednesday. Without fail. Living the dream. Crazy days Alex, crazy days.

Jesus Loveliness

In January I abandoned Alex and fled home to the UK to overdose on… now prepare yourself… human diversity (not only were there many different colours of skin, but also many different nose types) consumer choices (I never noticed that there are so many different types of deodorant in the UK) and buying alcohol from a shop after 6pm (Woo-bloody-hoo!). He missed me more then I missed him and I have it on good authority that he could be found curled up in a ball, rocking and hugging my muddy work body warmer on daily occasion. Then, after all that we had been through, when I returned to Iceland I discovered I had been momentarily replaced by a teenage infatuation and I‘m not going to lie… It hurt. However, the pain was quickly glossed over by the plotting's of the evil king and queen of Althingi who deemed Roz, Duncan, Alex and I could no longer live together and we were forced to live in separate abodes. Fuckers. On the bright side, whilst conducting the move Alex and I did get the opportunity to walk down the style conscious streets of Reykjavik dressed in jogging bottoms, hoodies and slippers, clutching a sleeping bag, food and Alex’s war games… which was nice. In addition, Roz and I also got a lesson in “How to be a Stepford Wife” to which I paid not one second of attention except to register that it actually happened. I didn’t like the Evil Queen of Alphingi.

Alex and Jo’s Reykjavik Stylee

Anyway, we moved house, me with the Brits, Alex with the Greek (he doesn’t speak much about what went on during that time but, judging by the glint in the Greeks eyes, I have a good idea) and the fast paced life of Reykjavik continued unabated.

Prior to the move I was largely teetotal but whether it was a consequence of our separation or not things changed rapidly during the months of February, March, April and Early May. During this time Alex and I embarked on a shared love of Spiced Rum and Icelandic Vodka to get us through the weekly monotony and not even the undoubted excitement of Suduko ‘Live’, Suduku ‘Teenage fan club’ and Suduko ‘Unplugged’ could distract us from our growing addiction. High amongst the inexplicable consequences was Alex waking up to find he had the number of a rather attractive “cowbell ninja” (AKA Magnus) on his mobile. He denied all knowledge of how it got there, but I’m not so sure. I could be wrong but Cowboy Ninja, Greek activities and his undoubted affinity with Café Babalu are strongly suggestive that “GAY” was at play.

Suduku… halcyon days

At some point during our drink fuelled springtime, FUN day happened. Perhaps we should have been forewarned by the excitement caused by mine and Hrappi’s impromptu SPA day (it is not the done thing to book a day off work just because you feel like it in Iceland. The Germans were also in full agreement) but needless to say we weren’t prepared for how outlandish our feelings would appear and incredulous conversations/arguments with the committee ensued. However, whatever the ’spikiness’ of the run up, FUN day proved to be an unmitigated success and love within the Alphingi forces flowed quicker then the evil nectar of Topas (bleurghh).

The joy of FUN day

Back to site, the hysterical misery continued and Alex and I, despite our runic discoveries (who will find them now?), hatched our ‘Icelandic Archaeological Suicide Pact’. With a notice period of six weeks the vodka and rum consumption stepped up a level and whilst I don’t remember much of it I do know it was FUN. To be fair, at least four of those six weeks were Alex’s ‘leaving do’ which goes some way to explaining the alcohol poisoning.

Too much alcohol to be sure

So we come to the end of the story, thus far. Alex you were a shining light, a ray of sunshine, a cowboy dressed in red, a regurgitated mouthful of… BANG… right in the face. So, see you later crocadilla. Wuuuuuuuuuuuuuuub woooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Love Jo, xxx

“Why do birds suddenly appear…”

p.s The absence of anyone else in this text is not a reflection on them but more a testimony to the megalomania that is Alex Sotheran

p.p.s Alex will never be my god

Back in the DHSS

I'm back in the UK now. It took me about thirteen hours from leaving my bed, on Jo, Roz and Duncan's sofa at 4.00am, to get back to Rotherham. Thirteen hours of miserable journeying with a hangover and two hours sleep as my travelling companions. We (Duncan, Roz, Lilja, Atli, Bjarki, Margrét, Hrafnkell, Iris, Jo and I) had been drinking the night before with some goodbye drinks that quickly turned messy. Several sad goodbyes later I crashed out on said sofa until my alram woke me up. At Gatwick I bid Jo a very sad goodbye. I probably won't see her again now until after I come back from South Africa in July. After getting home I dashed out and got myself a chippy tea. It looks like my car has been mistreated whilst I was away as well. The back tyre has a nail embedded in it and the thing was as flat as fuck when I got to it. Not only that it looks like my parents have been running it on empty, there was no fucking petrol in it when I went to get the chips. I give someone my car for four months and you'd think they could at least fill it up. You have to when you hire a car, so I don't see why the rules don't apply to me.

How my car looked on my return..

Lísabet added a comment asking if I had good memories about my time on that forbidding rock in the Atlantic. And frankly yes I do, it may seem as though I was massively unhappy in Iceland, but on the whole the experience was good one. I have no regrets about going and I met some brilliant people, whose generosity and pleasurable company was difficult to parallel. I was bored at work, but then I would have been bored anywhere really, having to trowel off bog deposits. Just one mattock would have been like a God Send. My arm muscles have atrophied, yet my hand muscles have grown out of all proportion. They look like two melons stuck on the end of pencils.

I was also bored in Reykjavik, but some of that was partially my own fault. I could have joined a night class or something similar, but the problems of doing this was illustrated by an earlier post I wrote. Also, the language barrier was always a difficult hurdle to cross besides anything else. I never saw the point in learning a language that 300,000 people speak in a country that I will never settle in. Call me small minded but Icelandic would be no use to me unless I planned to settle there, which was never a thought I had in mind. I actually love the language and I loved listening to it being spoken. The sound of it is very soothing, the use of 'th' sounds gives it a lovely comforting quality.

I mean, really, what the fuck does this say?

I found Reykjavik town a little too small, which is something I also covered in another earlier post, and that lack of escape was quite a problem for my mental state of being. I'm a man who likes his creature comforts and being Iceland only convinced me of this. I never really unpacked my suitcase from when I first turned up. Jo said I should have put some pictures up in my bedroom to make it a bit more personal. The only pictures I had were the ones from Terrorizer magazine. Not being fifteen anymore I didn't really relish the idea of Cannibal Corpse watching me sleep.

Would you sleep easily with these fellas watching you? No, me neither...

Like I said though, no regrets, I got to do so much stuff that I would have never done anywhere else. I played live three times, once clearing a bar and getting thrown off stage. I walked on a glacier, stood on a volcano, saw and ate Puffins, ate Whale meat and Sheep's head (albeit in jellied version...). Finally the country has to be the most unbelievable beautiful place I have ever seen. On a 7000 miles of a road trip across America not one place came close to the beauty and absolute gob smackingness of Iceland, except maybe the Grand Canyon. Outside of Reykjavik one surely can get Lost in Iceland. I will look back on my time there with fondness and good memories.

Bless Bless

So this is the last post I shall write whilst here in Iceland. I leave tomorrow for Terra Britannia at 7.00am. My last day on site was last Thursday and we went for the now traditional Grillhusid lunch. It also coincided with a colouring in completion when we found a load of photo-copied pictures of Disney characters. It was decided that mine was best with five votes to two over Lilja's 'effort'.

The winner by far

On Friday Atli and Hrönn had their house warming party. Apparently I'd called his and Hrönn's new apartment cold and sterile. Well it was certainly warm on Friday, helped a little by a bottle of vokda... Then Jo and I took ourselves off to the Westmen Isles (Vestmannaeyjar) for the rest of the weekend. I don't know if you know, but these are a set of small islands just of the south of Iceland. Home to about five thousand people about a third of the main town on the biggest island of Heimaey was buried under a volcano in 1973. We went specifically to see this, we called it Tephra Tourism. We climbed the mound of tephra that was left over after the eruptions of 1973, nowadays called Eldfell. Fire Mountain. How fucking obvious is that? What dullard came up with that name? It's a mountain, it's got fire coming out of it. What shall we call it? Why not just call it 'Massive Fucking Destruction Mountain' and have done with it. That aside it was kind of weird being on a hot mountain that was only six months older than me.

The population of Heimaey are all like 'WTF! OMGZ!!! DUDE!!!'

It wasn't just Volcanoes that fucked Heimaey up, Algerian Pirates turned up one day in the seventeenth century and captured most of the population, shooting the rest like fish in a barrel in some caves that hey thought they'd escaped to. You would wonder why people even bothered going back to the island after all these catastrophes, but Icelandic folk are hard headed if nothing else and the population still clings onto this rock, eating Puffins, sea bird eggs and roots and berries by the look of things. Even the fresh water supply was fucked up by the Volcano. In a nice touch all these horrors were lovingly carved on the new Church door.

I assumed this church door was pre-1973 and they had left a blank panel on the middle right section in case 'anything else of interest happened in Heimaey'

Another massive highlight of the trip was seeing some Puffins. Having eaten one before Christ's Mass, it was churlish of me not to see them in their natural habitat. We stared at the stupid little fat fucks in the driving rain then decided to visit the folk museum. We had been lied to by the Lonely Planet again. It had told us in hushed tones about a cabinet of artifacts from the island's only Nazi party representative. We searched high and low but could locate no Nazis what so ever. The boat trip home was one of the choppiest ever. The ship was practically capsizing with every tsunami sized wave. It was certainly not helping Jo's tummy due to the Monkfish dish disaster from the night before...

The Vestmannaeyjar Ferry arrives safe and sound in Reykjavik...