I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!
This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!
At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!
FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!
Final insult was the advertised full English breakfast turned out to be an individual box of Coco-Pops. Fucking London! To finish off the musical weekend, it was Eurovision weekend, Sweden won, but the better acts included the Singing Russian Babushkas, Jedward's Golden Shower and Gary Oldman as Dracula singing for Albania. I spent the night at Lauren's squawking racist abuse at the TV until it was all over for another year. Not the best contest I've seen, but still the musical highlight of the year.
As I have been working out in France and Belgium for the past nine years I thought it might be a good idea to show my parents what I have been doing and the work that No-Man's-Land have achieved over the years. But before I could go anywhere, I called up to Mr Main who was frothing at the mouth about the new bass he had swapped some of Pedals for. I have to admit it's pretty fucking cool as it was sent from the bassist from Fu Manchu. We also discussed the slight possibility of getting back stage at the upcoming Slayer gig. Watch this space...
As part of the trip out to the Somme, we stopped off in Cambridge for a look about and the worst lunch I've had for a long time. The next stop was a hotel in Folkstone close to the Channel Tunnel. We realised why Folkstone is called Old Folkstone for a good reason when confronted with the instructions for summoning assistance in the hotel:
And to help those forgetful enough to leave their windows open:
My room would not have been out of place on the set of Barton Fink and I half expected John Goodman to come bursting through the door surrounded by fire during the night. The following morning's tunnel crossing was no problem, as usual, and we found ourselves at Vimy Ridge. I did some work here a long time ago, but we weren't able to access the site as it was on private land and had to content ourselves with looking at the imposing memorial. You'd think the Canadians won the bloody war, given the size of it.
A quick history lesson for the folks and then a trip into Arras and the Brussel's Cafe for lunch. As usual, it was cheap and cheerful. We called into the Town Hall to see the underground tunnels (Boves) under the hall itself and met Arras' giants. They were pretty quiet, but I suppose it was the end of a Bank Holiday, so they may have been a bit tired by then:
The Boves under the Town Hall had an exhibition based on the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The results were staggering:
Les Jardin des Boves
Versailles
We were really lucky to catch this show. Pushing on we arrived at Ocean Villas, our home for the next few days. My folks were to meet the legend that is Avril Williams, who as ever was a convivial host. The following morning was trip up to the Ulster Tour and Thiepval Woods.
Carol had arranged for Teddy and Phoebe to give us the keys to the new gate so I could do a private tour.
Apparently as we were going into the woods, we were spotted by a battlefield guide and word spread quickly back to the Tower. At least they are vigilant about intruders going into the woods. Interfering bastards. A trip up to the Thiepval Memorial was on the agenda next:
This was followed by a look in at the Glory Hole where Peter Barton was running an excavation there. I was introduced to Peter, who shook my hand and told me he'd heard of me. I have absolutely no idea how. The excavations looked interesting but we didn't get a chance to go down the tunnels as structural engineers were working down them making them safe. Following this we called in at Lochnagar crater.
By the time we had a cup of coffee it was time to head back for dinner. A busy and successful day!
The morning brought a short walk over to the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park, we had a chuckle at the 'danger tree' and I explained to the folks that the trenches they were looking at were probably from 1918 rather than 1916. Also, as we were standing at the Caribu monument waiting for our turn to take in the view I was earwigging a tour operator pontificating about his travels up and down the battlefields of France. His story involved taking his six year old son down to Verdun and allowing the lad to, not only, pick up potentially dangerous explosives, but ferret about for human remains. I'm not sure if he was an approved tour guide or was doing it out of the back of his beat up transit van. I assumed the latter.
The Caribu
We walked over the hill to the Hawthorne Ridge were we bumped into the two bikers that were over at Avril's the night before for dinner. Nice guys, but they were from Lancashire, so I refused to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. In fact, we saw their bikes at the bottom of the hill and I put sand in their petrol tanks. That'll show them.
Fucked
I showed my folks the highlights of my favourite part of the Somme and explained what had happened there through the medium of printed period photos from the Battle of the Somme film.
The Lancashire Fusiliers at the Sunken Lane:
Hawthorne Ridge mine explosion:
The next stop was the large cemetery on the Pozieres Road, with a glass of beer at Le Tommy Cafe. We had stopped here in order to see the 'museum' that Dominic has in the back garden. I've seen it before and it is certainly a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. He seemed to have recently built a breeze block wall around his garden and was now charging five Euro to go and see the original First War uniforms rotting away in the rain. So we declined this offer and had a quick run out to Delville Wood to see the last surviving tree then back to Avril's for dinner.
As with all holidays the end comes around very quickly and Friday brought us the sights of Mailly-Maillet Church:
Then a drive over to Serre Road Cemetery number 2 to see the grave of the British soldier I helped excavate back in 2003:
Down the road I showed my parents the No-Man's-Land memorial erected for Albert Thieleke, Jakob Hones and the Unknown British soldier all found within metres of one another in 2003.
The Red Baron's plot at Fricourt German Cemetery. He was later moved back to the Richthofen family plot in Germany
My Dragon has 30 hit points and a strength of 14. You need to roll over 16 to hit it on a D20...
A quick call in at the Butte De Warlencourt was required as I had never stopped off there in all the years I have been going to the Somme.
The final night was marked by my father nearly coming to blows with a dumb Daily Mail reading bloke who was also in residence at Avril's that evening. I was talking to him after my mother dragged my father away to bed to diffuse the situation. He was very apologetic and I put him straight on a few of his misunderstandings of the First World War. In all, we had a great time, even if I did spend the entire time making everything up as I know fuck all about the First World War. I told them the British attacked on the Somme whilst riding elephants, that's why they lost so many men, as the targets were so big. And the entire British population was wiped out on the 1st of July 1916. Or summat like that.
I went to see Avengers Assemble last night with Nathan. I'd tell you more about Film Club, but the first rule of Film Club is 'There is no Film Club'. Or something like that. Anyway, he sat through it with a grin on his face like the idiot he is, except when he told some other popcorn munching idiots next to us to stop talking. Then he went back to grinning. I enjoyed it a lot more than that last pile of trash Joss Whedon wiped on the screen and here my favourite bits of it:
There you go. A review as deep as the film itself. Now, I'm off to France on Tuesday to show my folks what I have been doing out there for the past ten years so I won't be replying to any texts or emails, since the free texting/internet bundle that I have only applies to Orange in Britain even though it's the same fucking company in France and they see fit to charge me about forty times the normal price.
