A Perfect Vision of the Rising Northlands

You may be wondering what that is on the right hand side of the page. Well, gentle readers, it's an award from The Daily Reviewer, a blog review site and '[t]o be included in The Daily Reviewer is a mark of excellence.' Apparently this shite that I pour out has been rated as being in the top 100 Icelandic Blogs. What they don't tell you is there is only one hundred and one blogs in Iceland. I was also wondering why I got an award for an Icelandic Blog, as I haven't lived there since May, but never mind. At the end of the day I got an award and Herr Docktor Clay didn't. so:

IN YOUR FUCKING FACE CLAY!!!!

Back in my world, the titanic struggle with Tim goes on from the Summer House Plantation Trench 3. All the while the trench was being dug was an on going battle about the age of the ditch we found in the trench. It's quite obviously Roman. About halfway down the fills of the ditch was a mass of Roman pottery. Squashed pots, made from Grey Ware were coming out in handfuls. It was the same as having an inscribed stone in the base of the trench saying 'Romulus and Remus were here'. But one day, as I was walking up the field to see Tim's progress, I could hear him a whoopin' and a hollerin'. 'Flint! Flint!' he was crying. As I got to the trench, I asked him what the fuss was all about, he held up the world's smallest piece of flint and started discoursing on how the ditch was obviously prehistoric due to this empirical dating evidence. I argued it could quite easily have been dropped at any time the ditch was open, nothing more than what we call 'background flint'. He told me I was talking bollocks and ignoring the truth. The fact that he will be starting a PhD on Prehistoric South Yorkshire soon apparently has no bearing on his desperation to find evidence for prehistoric activity in an area where there is very little anyway.

The Black Hole of prehistoric activity in England

I was going over Tim's context sheets a few days later and found this little gem. It was written in the comments box of the context sheet for the ditch fill where the flint came from. I reproduce it verbatim here (the emphasises are mine):

'Also recovered were a small lump of flint, a flake of flint with a blade like edge, but unworked, a bone implement in the form of a point (the tip was intact when recovered, but broke off. The end however still shows where the point was worked), two pieces of black cylindrical material (jewelry?) and crucially, a small stone rubber of the kind that might have been used by a specialist crafts person'

These crucial pieces of archaeological dating firmly put the ditch in the Bronze Age, according to Tim's preliminary dating box on the same context sheet. I'm not sure if he's just breaking my balls at the stage or has really fallen hook, line and sinker into his own little fantasy world.

Roman Pottery in situ in SHP Trench 4: It must be Prehistoric!!!

In other work related news, Tom fell over in the night during the weekly barbecue. He was trying to move Danny's tent and paid for his horse play with a dislocated knee cap and a trip to Doncaster Accident and Emergency. He was back on site the next day, with his leg strapped up and orders not to walk on it for about six weeks. So this year's season we have seen two firsts: a human burial and an ambulance at the camp site. I also was 'arrested' by PC Pell, when he turned up to have a chat, the first time I've seen him in twenty years. Emma also showed up at the barbeque, she asked me not to slag her off in this blog, so here goes: Manowar are not Goth, you fucking ape. And finally I went for a massive Chinese meal with the extended family last night, the funniest thing was that Ian was watching in dismay from his table (who had finished their food early) as our table was served course after course of delicious grub.

Our table at Modern China, Rotherham, last night...

A Confederacy of Dunces

Since my last posting I have been working every day God sends. I may as well, these opportunities don't come around often so I may as well make as much out of it as possible. Brodsworth is quite a laugh anyway. Especially when I'm doing everybody else's paperwork. I have been going over Kyle's records. I was quite dreading it, given the struggle I had with Tim's paperwork, but it was surprisingly easy to clean up. The best thing I found was on one of the context sheets, the sheet for context 4018 in fact. In the relationship box, where one describes the context and it's place in archaeological space and time, Kyle had written '4018 was the context below 4018'. I was scratching my head for a while wondering how an archaeological layer can be below the same archaeological layer? Then today I was going over the paperwork for the testpits and I found one of Ryan's context sheets. On the reverse is a box for the interpretation of the context. There is a 'preliminary date' box in which one writes the date one assumes the context is, i.e. Roman, Medieval, Prehistoric, etc. Ryan had put '18/08/09'; the date he'd filled in the context sheet. I told him would have worked had he prefixed '18/08/09' with 'pre-', but that's just semantics.

Meanwhile, back at Trench 3...

In other news, back at Summer House Plantation Trench 3, the battle to win the hearts and minds of Tim goes on... The trench was supposed to have been finished last week, but Tim was allowing the students excavate mouse skeletons. I stood on the side of the trench and asked why they were excavating mouse skeletons when we had deadlines and was told 'the Romans ate mice, so it could be an important find.' Arthur the Farmer who owns the land was also there and was also berating Tim for this stupidity. We got into a discussion about whether the Romans had farms to raise mice, before they realised that cows and pigs have more meat on them...

A Roman Mouse Farm, before the culinary revolution that introduced beef and pork to the Roman diet...

Today I was, again, breathing down Tim's neck to finish Trench 3 when the following happened. One of the girls was excavating the bottom of the ditch and Tim shouted her in a humorous fashion about her trowelling. She didn't hear him properly, because she is hearing impaired, and she told him so. Tim responded with 'Oh that's a very convenient excuse isn't it?' To which I was desperately trying to get his attention, saying 'No Tim, it's true, she really is hearing impaired.' To which Tim's completely monstrous reply was 'If you don't want to do something I tell you to do, you can just say that your battery died!' I think he outdid anything I could ever come up with with the crassness of this remark...

Striving for Mediocrity!!

Tonight U2 are playing in Sheffield Arena. Normally this wouldn't be a problem. At least all the fucking Moronic U2 fans are enclosed in one place, getting them off the streets. The problem is I was going to go to a site visit and introduction to the Redmires POW camp community archaeology project. I have an active interest in Battlefield Archaeology and, more recently, community projects along these lines, so this would have been a great opportunity for me. The fact the U2 are playing tonight means that I can't get across Sheffield for the meeting as the roads will be packed with brainless oafs clamoring to sycophant in front of their idols. This is just one of another of a long list of reasons why I hate U2. Not that I needed many more anyway. I have always hated them to such a degree that I am unable to physically listen to their music in any form or another. Johnny Cash did a cover of the U2 track 'One' on his American III Solitary Man album. I immediately reach for the FWD button on my CD player when the first few notes begin, this is the only song that I ever do this with. It's like an OCD reaction to it. A Pavlovian response that has been drilled into me by a reaction against mediocrity. Because that's what U2 are, they are mediocre. No nonsense, straight line, stand up BORING. Not only is Boner a massive fucking hypocrite, what with preaching we should all be giving our hard earned money to the poor of the world, but then flying his FUCKING HAT around the world in First class to the tune of a thousand pounds, but he has no talent or originality. The band have found their rut and are staying in it. They haven't developed a single bit in the 33 long years they've been going. The shit they first recorded sounds the same as the garbage they are dragging out now. I hate them and their lack of artistic movement with every inch of my being, if my rage were a gun I'd shove it down Boner's fucking throat and pull the trigger until it goes click! Music is about dynamism, creativity, breaking barriers, just look at the brilliant Faust for Christ's Sake! U2 fans wouldn't even know bands like this exist because they're happy with their safe, inoffensive idols. U2 make music for people who don't like music. U2 are a crime against humanity, act now! It's time to make Boner History!

Stop the madness, say NO to U2!

I had the weekend off after almost collapsing on Friday and didn't return to work until Monday. Happily the site hadn't been reduced to a burning pile of rubble by Tim. He had managed to fuck up some registers in the two days I was absent however, so no change there then. The rest of the week has passed pretty quietly, except that we lost Dane through a BMX related injury and although he came close to having his leg amputated he should pull through. We all miss him on site and his lack of presence is very noticeable.

Get well soon, big man!!

Sucking the Sour Vine

Now that all the holiday and guest blogs are out of the way I can get back to telling you about the mundanity of my life. For the past two weeks I've been back working at the Brodsworth Archaeology Project for Sheffield and Hull universities. As ever with student excavations most days are as chaotic as a Chinese Fire Drill. This season I have taken on a larger role than I did last year in controlling things. Not only am I sorting out the roster for the students everyday, I am checking up all the records that are coming in from the other supervisors and running around like a blue arsed fly dropping off various bits of equipment for the other supervisors when they invariably forget to take them with them onto site. Added to that I am also giving advice on the archaeological excavations as they happen. Given the fact I haven't had a day off since returning from Italy there is little wonder that I nearly collapsed with a combination of sunstroke, exhaustion and dehydration on Friday and have taken the past two days off. As luck would have it I was going to take the weekend off anyway and head down to the World War One nerd fest at the Royal Gunpowder Mills, being run by my mate Dr David Kenyon. As luck wouldn't have it, I was too fucked to drive the two hours to London, so I missed that event as well, something I'd been looking forward to for ages.

Although this probably isn't actually happening at the Royal Gunpowder Mills WW1 Event, it's my impression of what I'm missing out on...

Also added to the piles of stress that I have had I have been having a running battle with Tim, one of the other supervisors, about his record keeping. Now, Tim may be fucking brilliant at painting Wargaming Miniatures, but his context sheets and registers could do with a little more work. Archaeology is by no means Brain Science, neither is it Rocket Surgery, but it seems to baffle Tim. As I have explained to him, at the most basic level is the importance of keeping good records. When the site is finished it is destroyed, we have no way of ever looking back at what we have done except through the records we keep as we go along. The very foundation of this record keeping are the registers. They help enormously during the post-excavation phase of the job but also they help so that we don't double up numbers during the actual site work. Every archaeological context we excavate has to have a number, it goes in the context register. Every drawing we do has to be given a number in the drawing register. Every sheet that every drawing is on also has to have a number which is put in the sheet register. Every photograph we take has to be entered into the photographic register. Do you see a pattern emerging here? Tim doesn't.

'Hmmm, which register is this? The one that counts how many mistakes Tim has made today?'

In Tim's world, I am a fucking mind reader who can second guess the work he is doing when I am not there on site. Usually I'm busy correcting his mistakes in the office. If I had a pound for each time I have had to rub out numbers or void them from the sheets and drawings, I would have about £3,987,456 and could retire from archaeology once and for all. Most basic of all, the registers are all sequential, i.e. 1001, 1002, 1003, etc (the thousand number indicates which trench is being excavated at the time, again so you know instantly where the number has come from). The most basic of basic maths. After nearly a week of beating this into him, Tim produced his context register for me to look at. It ran, I shit you not, like this:

3002
4001
3001

I think he must have set up some random number generator to get the numbers, either that or he just PULLED THEM OUT OF HIS ASS!!! Without my calm and reassuring presence, God alone knows what state the site will be in tomorrow when I return to work, I'm half expecting it to be a smouldering pile of ruins with Tim standing over it shouting 'What the fuck is going on?!'

'And the next context number is...'

I was trying, in vain, to find a picture of Myleene Klass presenting the Lottery for the above illustration, so to finish up here is one of her in just her pants instead. Don't say I never do anything for you.

'Calm down Alex, everything's OK, forget about the context registers. Look, I'm in just my pants.'

Deathcult Armageddon

Here is another guest posting, this time, it's from lauren and again it's about Brodsworth and the supposed Crimes Against Humanity that went on there last year. Sit back, relax, pull up a biscuit and enjoy....

Deathcult Armageddon

If you’re interested in stories with happy endings, you’d be better off reading some other blog. In this blog, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and hardly any happy things in the middle. This is because not many happy things happen in the presence of Alex Sotheran, (a.k.a. Herr Sotheran, or “Führer und Reichskanzler”)

The sorry story I am about to impart concerns Herr Sotherans dealings with the once breathtaking student archaeological excavation at Brodsworth. I myself am partly to blame for this, which is the reason why I now write – to warn future students from dealings with this madman, nay, monster. Two years ago it came to pass that myself, a naive young archaeologist with a yearning to please, had the foolishness to introduce Herr Sotheran to Brodsworth's evil ruler Overlord Merrony. After a brief dalliance and several sacrificial offerings, it was decided that Herr Sotheran was to take charge of excavation the following year.

The full impact of this brief liaison between Sotheran and Merrony two years ago is unknown, but it should be noted that one student, one Adam McWhan, was never seen or heard of again. Rumours persist that somehow he escaped their evil clutches, changing his name and fleeing to Holland. These stories however may simply serve as a device for saddened friends and relatives to come to terms with his sudden disappearance.

What really happened to Adam McWhan

What happened the following year was unforeseen by all. The once beautiful grounds of Hickleton Hall had been transformed. Grey and desolate was the landscape, the hulking shell that was the camp kitchen the only building left fully standing. The Hall itself was ruined and aflame, the charred corpses of its former residents littering the ground. As the students stood aghast at the scene before them, Herr Sotheran appeared. “Welcome to your new home, my pretties” he sneered. “Meet my loyal servants, Von Redface, Donkey Kong and Sykes. They will help you...settle in”. The horrified students were sent to set up their tents in silence under the watchful eyes of Herr Sotheran and his servants, any protests being met with beatings unlike any ever seen by the eyes of man.

The grounds of Hickleton Hall after Herr Sotherans “alterations”. You don’t want to know what A, B, and C are...

I realised the full consequences of my imprudent actions over the coming days. At 5am every morning we awoke to the sound of Her Sotheran thrashing the engine of his car (which he had stolen from a passing old deaf man) and playing SS marching tunes at an ungodly volume. If any person was not up and out of their tents withing 5 minutes of this event, Herr Sotheran would run them down, driving his vehicle like a madman. Tents and bones were crushed in the furore, mud, blood and gore splattering Herr Sotheran's face as he laughed at the injustice of it all while Sykes, Donkey Kong and Von Redface looked on in cold indifference.

Artists impression of Hickleton campsite, 5.05am

Students caught committing anything deemed a “crime” were singled out and publicly humiliated. Such crimes included not laughing at Herr Sotheran's childish jokes, not liking Burzum and being a fan of historically inaccurate Hollywood films. One girl, the poor unfortunate Kate Brown, was ritually beaten with wet bamboo in front of the others, before being forced into a half finished test pit and covered with tarpaulin. It was only when she crawled inside that she realised the scale of her punishment – the hole was already filled to the brim with dead clowns. Dead clowns with no trousers. “That’ll teach you for denouncing the Chosen One” laughed Herr Sotheran, his eyes burning with lust for revenge on the girl. “Hvis Lyset Tar Oss is fucking brilliant. You will learn to love it too”.

One of the inhabitants of Kate’s test pit

While I cannot possibly recount the total number of atrocities committed by or in the name of this monster, I feel it necessary to list some of their names and fates. Their friends and families were lied to incessantly about their dearests whereabouts, and I feel it is my responsibility to impart the truth, as gruesome and shocking as it is.

Ben Wheatley – Herr Sotheran's sex slave. Required to refill his arsehole with crushed limestone every morning so Herr Sotheran can “feel natural”.

Kyle Leaper – hypnotised by Overlord Merrony to serve Herr Sotheran. Mind control is exercised through the forced wearing of a leather waistcoat.

Angela Walker – in hiding. One of the few who got away. Discovered that Herr Sotheran had designs on her as the mother of his “master race”, to be conceived though the medium of a pair of beige pyjamas and a teatowel soaked in his seed.

Alex Bratby – drowned in a portaloo.

Sam Stein – still working at Brodsworth, only because her feet were nailed to the floor. Frequently passes in and out of consciousness. Locals, scared of freeing her and incurring the Wrath of Sotheran, now visit and treat her as a prophet of the future.

Chris Nolan-Rennie – bound in chains of adamantium and backfilled into one of the churchyard trenches.

Owen Watts – choked on his own hair.

Caroline Esberger – danced to death in shoes made of heated iron, to the tune of “Dance Yourself Dizzy”.

D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
Tonight they're turning on the heat
Tonight you're in for such a treat
Tonight, put on your dancin' feet
And dance, dance, dance

Mario and Luigi (real names unknown) - painted red and green respectively, beaten, and forced to eat pizza whilst jumping over barrels until death by exhaustion.

RIP

Adam Doore – dissected alive as Herr Sotheran tried to discover the source of his luxuriant beard.

Ryan Wilson – crucified on top of “Pimpin’ Jesus”

Daniel Goldswain, a. k. a. “Sex Machine” – literally turned into a sex machine.

It is here that this sorry tale must end. I know no words of comfort that may aid individuals affected directly or indirectly by these crimes. The Brodsworth Deathcult continues, with no end of Herr Sotheran and Overlord Merrony's tyrannical reign in sight. All I can hope is that this message is received and serves to discourage unfortunate students from signing up willingly to serve this torturous machine. Unless the only other option is going to join the Stonehenge Chain Gang.

Danger High Velocity Road!! Italy pt 3

This is the final part of the Italian Blog, I promise you, after this I can get back to telling you about the abuse I mete out to the students I am currently teaching. Click on the link to find Part One and Part Two.

I forgot to mention we had a hardcore game of Zug um Zug (some of you who have been here since the beginning will remember that I didn't get to play this game during Play Night in Iceland...) on Monday night with Frida's cousins. as is usual with games, I never remember who won, so we'll just say I did, to save arguments. Frida's cousin Marika (I'm not sure how to spell her name...) was learning English and wanted to hang out with us so I could teach her in English. My lesson plan consisted of me shouting 'In English!' everytime she spoke Italian to Frida. It seemed to work.

Frida and Luana celebrate getting to Trento alive despite my best efforts to get them both killed...

Trento was next on the list, along with Luana, Frida's friend, who had until recently lived in Trento as a student. Her unparallelled knowledge of the city was a God send. I drove the three of us in the family tank. But unlike most Italian tanks, (which have five gears: one forward and four backwards) this one was a bit more lively. It was my first time driving on the wrong side of the road, but what made it more difficult was the fact that I had two Italian girls jabbering in my ears, the car was about forty times bigger than the one I am used to and the crazy Italian drivers and their disregard for the rules of the road. Throw into this mix a burst tyre just after getting onto a high speed road and it makes for a very sweaty, nervous and tense Alex. Miraculously After all this misfortune we arrived at the Castello Del Buonconsiglio in one piece and spent the afternoon absorbing the very large Egyptian exhibition and the various Medieval frescoes the Castle had to offer...

Have some, yer fucken bitch!

Further archaeological treats awaited us at the S.A.S.S. An underground Roman city this time. Yawn. The Romans are like the Ikea of the Ancient World. You could be in Danum or Thysdrus, the street layout would be exactly the same. Like the Dead Kennedy's said 'This could be anywhere, this could be everywhere'. The Romans were just the flatpack for the BCs. Anyhoo, the museum consisted of large parts of the original street layout of Trento as it was back in the day. There were the usual Latin inscriptions which Frida translated for us.

The teacher and the teacher's pet; 'This one says "Alex is a Douchelord"'

In all seriousness, the place was fucking amazing, the original Roman road alone was mind blowing. I'm not usually moved much by archaeology anymore, but I was thinking what a pleasure it would have been to excavate this site. Then I realised what I was thinking and stopped being such a fucking nerd.

Frida is thinking: 'It's a fucking Roman road! A road the fucking Romans walked on! All of them! All of the fucking citizens of the Roman Fucking Empire walked on this fucking road!! What the Fuck?!'

After a quick look at a Piazza built by Mussolini after he pulled down a load of crappy Medieval buildings and a Fascist Building we left the delights of Trento Behind.

Awwww, look the Friendly Fascist is waving at us! They can't be all bad...

The following day Frida and I headed out to Largo Di Ledro, a large tourist lake which seemed to be populated by Dutch tourists trying in vain to pay for free parking. On the side of the lake there was some rather nice Palafitte Buildings dating back to the some monkey-rock-bashing-prehistoric period or other. The reproductions weren't really up to scratch but to see the original timbers still in the water was pretty sweet.

That's right Bitch! That's some motherfucking prehistoric timbers right there!

We climbed the roads of Monte San Martino in the family's other tank, the Fiat Uno of Doom. Climbing hills in Northern Italy with a crapped out Fiat Uno with a blowing exhaust is no joke. It was a similar experience to what wrestling a bear must be like, but with more wheels. The gear box was fucked and the stick needed kicking into place. With turns that required many gear changes this was a difficult task, only confounded by the mind melting heat. Finally we made it some Roman ruins that Frida wanted to see and they made a welcome relief after the trauma of having to get to them. We were standing in front of a mocked up inscription stone and I began reading out the inscription, Frida turned to me and said 'Wow, how did you learn Latin so quick?' I just pointed out the fact I was reading out the translation on the panel next to the stone.

Breaking the Law, Breaking the Law!

We overlooked Lake Garda from the mountain, I was not allowed to get closer as Frida said it 'only a lake full of Germans.' In lieu of seeing where a James Bond (pronounced by Frida and Cinzia as 'Zero Zero Seven'...) stuntman had crashed, we called in on a smaller lake, who's name I forget, but which was still packed with Germans. We finished the day off with a visit to another Prehistoric palafitte site, which was no where near as touristy as the previous one.

The palafitte remains were not as impressive as this evening sky, so enjoy this instead...

On the way back we pulled into the square outside Frida's house where her neighbours were sitting enjoying the evening sun. As we did I kicked the accelerator several times, giving out the loudest revs ever from the fucked exhaust and rattling all the nearby windows. Frida just slid down below the window in her seat in embarrassment. The evening was spent at Lorena's then Jessica's place where we got to play with some of Emanuele's WW1 collection...

Hände hoch!!

Austrian Stormtroopers come in all shapes and sizes...

Then after all the crappy archaeology we finally got to the good stuff. My final day in Italy was spent in the kingdom of Nerd at the Museo Grande Guerra in Spiazzo. Alessandro, Emanuele's brother got hold of the keys for us to get in because the museum had some weird opening hours. They generally seemed to be when the rest of the world was asleep. After checking out the main exhibitions, Alessandro opened the Aladdin's cave that was the upstairs store rooms. OH MY FUCKING GOD!! The beauty held within those rooms. The place was packed to the rafters with War goodies. I have never seen so many Great War Austrian helmets in one place. We spent what seemed like hours going through the collection, even Jessica joined in:

Sicilian Mafia Molls, doing daddy proud...

'Wonderful things...'

'I make him an offer he don' refuse'

Soon it was time to leave and then time to leave Italy all together. An early start the next morning, two trains, a wrestle with the crowds at the airport and I was back in Terra Britannia. What made it a brilliant holiday was the warm welcome that Frida's family gave me. It felt like within days I was part of the family and they all went out of their way to make me feel welcome. I am sorry to say I didn't get to say thank you to Frida's parents for their hospitality before I left, so if you're reading this Frida, thank them both for me. Also thanks to Frida, the best tour guide Northern Italy has to offer! I will remember for a long time the unbelievably Italian experience of sitting in a kitchen, eating salami and cheese and listening to opera whilst Rosa whipped up more incredible pizzas. I would like to return, as there are First World War Galleries built into the mountains to explore, but I will have to start my mountain climbing training...

Mamma Mia!! Italy Part 2

Here is the second part of the Italian Blog, where in you will find details of the second weeks doings. If you missed it, which you shouldn't have, you can find part one here. The first week was over and it was time for Frida and I to move further up north, up to the area of Val Rendena where Frida's family lives. It was a rather long train journey, but in the company of Frida it seemed to pass pretty quickly...

There must be a scientific reason why train journeys pass quicker in Frida's company, but I'm damned if I know what it is...

After arriving in Roverto we met Cinzia, Frida's oldest sister. The girls were more than pleased to sate my Appetite for Destruction by taking me to see the Maria Dolen, the massive bell on the hillside forged from the cannons of the First World War. The bell is the largest outside of Russia and Asia and rings everyday for Peace.

You can ring my beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, ring my bell...

After which, despite my protestations they would be bored, the girls allowed me to indulge myself in the Museo Storico Italiano Della Guerra and the attached Artillery Museum. Man, what a great collection of killing stuff. I can spend days looking at instruments created for wholesale destruction, but after a while Cinzia was suffering from war fatigue. Frida, on the other hand, was taking an even more deeper interest than me. She seemed to be reading every caption on the displays. I, on the other hand, was at a slight disadvantage, as they were all in Italian and the only Italian words Frida had taught me was Porco Cane and Mamma Mia!

Frida does a good impression of being interested in War things!!

Arrival at the Pellegrino household was heralded by champagne corks popping, not a common occurrence I was told, so I felt privileged. Frida had told me that I was expected to teach English to her extended family. She said I was to give a speech in the town square and hoped that I had prepared something for it. Of course she was joking but when we arrived the entire family turned out to see the 'parlante Inglese'. Her uncles, aunts and cousins all came to look at me. The vast family had a barbecue and I was fed massive quantities of meat and booze all night. This was to become a fixture for the following week, Frida's mum would pile great tasting food on my plate whilst her father plied me with booze. An amusing anecdote: When we were in Padova Frida had mentioned going to MacDonald's for food. I immediately protested, asking her why would she rather eat meat flavoured sawdust than the beautiful food served up in Italy, to which she answered 'MacDonald's is Ethnic.' Priceless.

An unfortunate anagram of 'Ailing Vomit'...

With an early start, the next morning had been earmarked to tackle the hitherto unscaled heights of Mandrone Glacier, part of the Adamello mountain range. I had been led to believe this giant beast had never been tackled by humans before. We were to be the first to set foot on it's dizzying summit. A task unequalled proportions lay before us. I packed for the task, like Scott of the Antarctic, with bottled water, sun cream and an extra sweater. The first task was to gain entry to the park without paying for parking, a task made easy by zooming past the parking attendant at the gate at about 140kph. Frida and I were joined by Frida's sister Jessica, her boyfriend Emanuele (who was driving and had gained us free entry...) and their friend Stephano. Also along for the ride was Cinzia and her boyfriend Phillipe, whom we met later. This plucky band readied ourselves for the toughest challenge of our lives.

Frida is not daunted by the news that a party of German Mountaineers had died the previous day, attempting the fabled 'Mandrone Death Trap'...

Only the silent mountain knew how many had tried and how many had died attempting to tame this beast

The going was tough from the start, at the third camp we were forced to eat the Porters who had accompanied us on the journey.

Frida, after having enjoyed a meal of lightly braised porter

We passed graves of First World war Soldiers who had died on the route to the top

Finally we reached the roof of the world, the first ever to make it to the top. We celebrated by having a drink and a three hour long lunch at the refuge. After Emanuele had pointed where the Great War trench lines ran across the mountain tops we set off back down the mountain, weaker but wiser.

Conquered for the first time in Human history, Mandrone was no longer the oppressive beast shadowing the valley in death

Pah, Italy, who'd ever want to go there?

Monday was spent recovering and taking Lorena (Frida's other sister; If you're wondering, she has three sisters and one brother. Her father gets a hard time...) and her two kids out for a walk. Two year old Martina demanded to see horses the entire time until she was placated with a visit to a wooden hut. Tuesday found Frida and I walking down the Val Di Fumo, to find more First World War battlefields. Frida was also fixated on locating Care Alto, (Editor Update: my sources tell me Frida was fixated on locating Cavento, not Care Alto. My bad) much like Martina was fixated on locating horses, but there was no wooden huts around to placate her.

Is Care Alto that one, or is it that one? No, I'm sure it's that one....

We went to Val Di Fumo as Frida's father was building a cow shed there and could drop us off for the day to walk the length of the valley. After climbing up several large rocks, photographing flowers at Frida's demand and seeing only a school party we arrived at the end of the valley and the stood on snow that still hadn't melted since winter. With the source of the Chiese located, our work was done and we walked back.

'Take a photo of the flowers'
'But I don't want to take a photo of the flowers'
'Take a photo of the flowers or I will get my father's Sicilian Mafia connections to get you.'
I took a photo of the flowers

The mysterious source of the Chiese had been uncovered by the intrepid travellers

OK, there is still more to go, but to keep these posts short I will publish the last one soon, so hold on for further entertainment...

T.I.A. Baby!! Pt4

Finally the last part of TIA Baby!! Craig and I left the warm bosom of Barberton and flew to Johannesburg, back to Vivian and Derek’s place. We only had a couple of days left in South Africa and with nearly a week of inertia behind us we were determined to do some tourist shit! The first stop was the Apartheid museum. Which is where Apartheid belongs. The museum had a quite confusing path to follow, but was packed with information and brilliant footage of the times. I could have easily spent another few hours in there. The building stands a as a testament to a time when something as innocuous as a park bench can be used in such an offensive manner.

Bleurghhhhhh!!

After the museum, Derek, Vivian, Craig and I went on a tour of Soweto. The tour was taken by a funny guide in his taxi bus. He showed us the highlights, including Nelson and Winnie Mandela’s houses and Archbishop Tutu’s gaff. We drove past the open space where Hector Pieterson’s memorial is and saw his sister giving a talk about the incident. What luck! At another monument the local drunk/guide gave us a short tour, then played his flute through his nose. Bizarre. After a quick drive through downtown Johannesburg, where Derek tried to attract the attention of drug dealers, we arrived back home for dinner with Viv’s sister.

Stay in the car, lock the doors and close the windows, we're going in...

The following day was spent at Sterkfontein caves, where the earliest human relatives were found. The cradle of Humanity, if you will. The museum was good and the tour around the caves was interesting although lacked information. The tour guide Nola, Nolly or what ever her name was told us all humanity had originated in Africa. She asked who was on holiday and I put my hand up to which she said ‘welcome home!’ Thunderous laughter abounded. The marvels of Maropeng, which was basically a dumbed down museum for retarded children, consisted of the water ride, which we screamed all the way through and the revolving barrel room which made us feel sick.

Let me off! I’m going to throw up!

Help!! We’re stuck and my friend has drowned!

Craig and I headed out to the Lion Park where we saw a cheetah pace up and down in it’s cage out of boredom, a baby giraffe chewing a pole out of boredom, a meercat trying to look over it’s cage out of boredom and some lions sleeping, out of boredom.

If you let me out here, I’ll rip your fucking face off…

We did get to pet some baby lions, one of which had the same attitude as me when Craig shoved a camera in it’s face and took a swipe at him. I should have started doing that myself. The park had a small safari trail attached, but having seen the majesty of Kruger Park, this one seemed more like it was the size of Aberystwyth rather than Wales.

Meow

For my birthday treat the next day we called out to the South African National Museum of Millitary History, fucking brilliant. I saw an ME262, the only night fighter version left in the world, a load of great artillery pieces and an SE5A, something I never thought I’d see in my life. I was actually trying to get Craig to take photos of things for me, for reference, but he insisted I stood in front of everything I wanted a photo of. What is the use of that? I know what I look like, I want to see a real live SE5A, not some dumb bearded bloke mooning in front of it. I see myself everyday in the fucking mirror. Christ Craig, I’m interested in Military History, not Monkey History.

Just behind that big head is a very rare Aeroplane indeed

My birthday was finished off with a visit to Keith, Craig’s brother, and his cool and hospitable family, we talked into the night about bikes, music, travelling, and various other topics. A good end to a good day.

Which brought us to the final day where we met Barry, one of Craig’s dad’s comrades, again, very hospitable and full of funny stories from the Angolan Border Conflict. Like the time the Angolan forces over the river would mortar the SA positions on payday. The SA infantry got wise to it and dug an armoured car in the river bank to give them a surprise the next time they did it… Barry had built his own bar in his house, which was packed with militaria. What a man.

Barry; Gentleman, Soldier, Hero

So that’s it, this brings me to the end of the South African adventure. I had a blast, mostly thanks to my travelling companions. South Africa is somewhere I never thought I’d go, nor really had the inclination to visit before the opportunity arose, but I’m glad it did. The diversity of the country was staggering. The size of the place is unfathomable. The generosity and kindness of the people is almost unparalleled (more of this in the Italian blogs…) and over all I would urge anyone to take a trip down south!