The Frozen North of Ultima Thule

Steve and Lauren visited last Thursday; they were staying for a week and we had planned on a road trip to the north. Lauren, being the Goth she is, wanted to see Dimmuborgir. They arrived pretty late on Thursday bearing gifts of Rum and a 'Yorkshire Tea' milk jug and apron, sent from Andrew Chamberlain of Sheffield University. After a quick cup of tea we headed into town only to find everything shut, so we couldn't have a celebratory drink for their arrival. We came back to my gaff and Lauren and I gossipped about everyone we know, so if you know Lauren and you know me, then we talked about YOU, yes YOU. For some God only known reason they wanted to spend Friday checking out the fishing camp that is Reykjavik, so I took them to my site first of all. As we walked away I could hear Atli asking why all my friends are so short. We went round some of the museums, first the National Museum, then the Settlement centre where the enthusiastic guide enthused over horse fighting, telling us specially trained Icelandic fighting horses go for the jugular. He told us the horses were sent into a frenzy of fighting because of the presence of a mare. I suggested it was like most towns on a Friday or Saturday night. The Manuscript Museum was excellent and I hadn't been in there before so that was good for me at least. We headed out for a few drinks on Friday night with Jo, Roz and Duncan.

After picking up a car on Saturday morning we headed out on the well trod path of the Golden Circle, after first of all going around the Reykjanes peninsular to see the bridge between continents, then getting the car stuck in the only patch of snow in the south-west of Iceland. After about an hour of attempting to dig the car out with the jack handle, three burly Russians appeared in a 4X4 and pushed the car out for us, completely emasculating Steve and I in the process. The rest of the Golden Circle tour occurred without incident except for Lauren and I standing upwind of Geysir and getting soaked. Neither of us were expecting that to happen. We thought better of visiting Þingvellir due to the failing light and the sideways snow being blown by a 100mph wind. Instead of going to Duncan's housewarming party (Roz ad Jo refused to have anything to do with it...) we crashed out early, ready to set off north in the morning.

After a quick tour around Þingvellir in far more agreeable circumstances than the previous day, we struck out north stopping at Borganes and the fantastic Egil's Saga Museum which turned out to be a brilliant but basic guide to Egll's Saga through the medium of wood. The best things were the Scorn Pole and the werewolf statue of Egil's Grandfather.

Egil, probably...

It took a while to find because the simple girl at the garage drew us the most random map of how to get there, then failed to even give us the map. The journey north continued and despite Steve's misgivings about the 'Road of Death' we arrived in Varmahlið alive. The hotel was empty except for us three and with the snow laid thick around outside it threatened to turn into a scene from The Shining. I'm sure I was woken up by someone scratching on the door whilst muttering 'Red Rum, Red Rum...'

Here's Johnny!!

Monday brought us to Akureyri and even further north to Húsavík, so Lauren could see the biggest collection of penises (penii?) in Iceland in the the Phallological Museum. She's always gasping for cock, that one. It turns out that the museum is shut for the winter, it must be something to do with the cold weather and the exhibits shrivelling up...

Lauren and Steve outside the Phallalogical Museum, closed due to Shrinkage

With a loss for anything else to do in Húsavík we visited the excellent Whale Museum which was being used by the local Derby & Joan (Derbyson & Joandóttir?) Club for their golf tournament. We learnt all about whaling, whale spotting and whale biology whilst dodging golf balls.

Golf? In a museum? Only in Iceland...

Om Nom Nom

Leaving the many varied sites of Húsavík behind (if I were in charge of the tourism in Húsavík, I think I would go with the town logo; 'Húsavík, at least it's not Olafsvik') we headed back south and took a wrong turn that dropped us outside of Dimmuborgir. We left the car on the road and began the descent into Hell. The snow was still very thick and was covering even the site gate when we arrived. The place was empty except for us three and we trudged through waist deep snow to try to reach the formation known as the Church. After exhausting ourselves just like Scott of the Antarctic we decided it would be best to turn back as Icelandic weather is not something to take for granted. Also, trolls can be a very real and present danger in a place like Dimmuborgir and I didn't fancy trying to outrun one knee deep in snow.

Lauren and Steve get ready to outrun Trolls at Dimmuborgir

With a late meal of Pizza in our bellies we headed to a bar for a drink, where Lauren was accosted by a farmer who liked her accent. I asked him if he was a snow farmer, which didn't go down very well. I crashed out in the semi-luxurious surroundings of the Hotel Akureryi and woke to a massive breakfast of cereals, toast and waffles. Well, you've got to gorge yourself when it's free.

It took us ages to build this snowman and I still don't know where Lauren got that massive carrot from...

A quick wade through more waist deep snow at Goðafoss and the pseudocraters at Skútustaðir, we called in to book a chalet at the Dimmuborgir Guesthouse. Promptly getting the car stuck again, this time in Volcanic ash rather than snow, we needed the assistance of the owner of the guesthouse to pull us out, whilst his dog ran around our toes with a log it seemed fixated on.

Not again Steve...

Hverir and it's otherworldly appearance were next on the list. After wondering what the fuck was going on at Hverir we spent the rest of the afternoon in the relaxing nature baths at Jarðböðin which we had to ourselves for the most part. The snow even lay thick around the baths, so Steve and I had fun rolling about in it then throwing ourselves into the 42 degree hot pots. The evening was spent eating pasta, playing cards and seeing how bad a loser Lauren is.

Om nom nom...

Lauren tried calling the Phallological Museum on Wednesday morning to see if the owner was back from Reykjavik yet. She told him she was gasping to see his Penis(es), but he wouldn't be back until late that day, so we decided to begin the long drive back to Reykjavik via Reykholt. We got to Reykholt late on, but the nice lady at the reception allowed us to stay as long as we wished after she found out I was an archaeologist. She even showed us the library upstairs and the apartment that students can use when staying there. She finished the personal guide with a quick tour of the church. all this and she didn't even charge me the entrance fee. A quick look at the hot springs at Deildartunghver later we headed back to Reykjavik only stopping for some food shopping. After a massive meal Duncan and Jo headed out to meet us in Dillon for a couple of drinks and we all fell into a deep and drunk sleep.

My Friend Lilja

I was chatting to Lilja the other day and she said this weblog was boring because it didn't have enough about her in it, so her is a posting all about my friend Lilja. Lilja, or Lil-J as she likes to be known on the streets, was born and raised in East Harlem, into a family of sixteen she was the second oldest and spent most of her pre-teens raising the rest of the family. At eleven she was initiated into the local gang, KSR (Kriminals Seeking Respect), she still has the teardrop tattoos on her face now. At age twelve she took her first life in a drive-by shooting on a Taco Bell. There was no other rival gang members in the place, they did it 'for shits and giggles.' After a 5 year stretch in the Pennsylvania State Correctional Facility she was released once again back onto the streets. After a two year descent into crack addiction, fueled by pimping out her younger siblings, Lil-J gained a place at Harvard University by forging a neighbours application. The three years of violence and corruption that marked her 'studies' left Harvard in a state of shock. Threatening the Dean with a 9mm pistol gained her a first in African-American studies. Her threatening behaviour knew no bounds and she dragged her on-off boyfriend, Andre (AKA Prof. Dre), over to Iceland. A land untouched by drugs and corruption would be an easy target for the power obsessed Lil-J. She flooded the schools of Reykjavik with cheap Crack and Heroin, the Chinaman's Nightcap. In order to keep Police interest away from her she took a job as an Archaeologist on a Government funded excavation. This is were I first met her last September. On introducing herself to me, she held a pistol to my head and pulled the trigger. The gun was empty and she stood there laughing over me as I lay in the foetal position. She casts a shadow of fear and oppression over the rest of the work force. In one instance, she forced Atli to shove three billiard balls into his mouth, then punched him so hard in the face that his front teeth shattered. Lil-J is short in stature and she makes Bjarki, the tallest man on site, carry her around all day on his shoulders to make sure she towers above everyone else. This humiliation is complete by Bjarki being forced to wear a saddle. Once whilst playing 'Shit Head' during lunch, Jo beat Lil-J at the card game. Lil-J became so incensed that she bent Jo's thumbs back so far they snapped. She stabbed little Vala for looking at her 'wrongly'. Margret was kicked repeatedly in the stomach after she failed to laugh at one of Lil-J's jokes. Roz innocently asked Lil-J to pass her a pen to which Lil-J reacted by pulling down a shelving unit full of hammers on her head. These are just a few of the horrors to which I have been witness whilst in the company of Lil-J, the tyrant of Icelandic Archaeology.

Lilja, on a six day Crystal Meth binge come-down

In other news, here are the film reviews, I watched Marylin Monroe in 'The Misfits' on DVD, the film after which one of my favourite bands are named. It's excellent, a great portrayal of human wreckage floating down the swollen river of life. Speaking of which, Monroe certainly looks swollen as she neared the end of her life, completely sozzled on pills and booze. Who killed Marylin? Was it the Kennedys? LAPD? Make it look like suicide, make it look like suicide.

The Misfits, the band, not the film...

If you want to see a film worse than Star Wars Episodes One through to Three then I thoroughly recommend Fan Boys. Sounds great on paper, four Star Wars fans drive across country to break into Skywalker Ranch to steal the pre-release version of 'Episode One, the Phantom Malaise'. I would have released a better film had I taken a shit on a piece of paper and set fire to it as the script. The film is so cheap and lame-ass that the producers didn't even secure the rights to the original score. Even the British TV show 'Spaced' managed to get a few bars of William's iconic tunes. I was really disappointed and so was Atli, because we forewent 'Play Date' to sit through nearly two hours of torture. The best thing in it was the Guards from THX1138. If that means nothing to you, then you are not bound by the Jedi creed and are no friend of mine.

What Jar Jar Binks thinks of Fan Boys, which says a lot...

Finally Milk, film of the year. I have been trying to work out which was better, Valkyrie or Milk and I think it's Milk. I like Valkyrie because of the content, but Milk is just a way better movie. The story is based on the San Fransisco Gay Rights Activist Harvey Milk. Having been a Dead Kennedys fan for more years than I can remember, this film filled in a few gaps in my knowledge. The Kennedys' reworking of The Clash's I Fought the Law and I Won, is directly about Milk and Dan White, his eventual assassin. The cover of the Dead Kennedys first Album 'Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables' has a picture of burning cop cars that were ignited during the 'White Riot'. These occurred following the judge's decision of giving White manslaughter charges rather than murder. There is even in the film the appearance of Anita Bryant, the Right-Wing Christian Zealot who opposed Gay Rights. She makes an appearance in the Dead Kenendys song 'Moral Majority' in the lines 'Ram it up your cunt Anita'. I never knew who that was referencing until I saw Milk. Go see the film, it's brilliant.

Listen to the Dead Kennedys!!

Gjallar

This weekend consisted of drinking heavily, which is what most weekends consist of in Reykjavik. It may sound cool and exotic to live in Reykjavik, but there ain't that much else to do. I headed over to Jo, Duncan and Roz's place after a disastrous attempt to get on the Internet at Tomas Fraendi. We were going to order pizza from the best Pizza Place in town (There is a lot of these here: the Best Pizza Place, the Best Ice Cream Bar, the Best Hotdog Stand, the Best Half-a-Sheep's Head Shop, the Best Buried-in-it's-own-piss-for-six-months Rotten Shark Stand). Bjarki and Hrappi had recommended it to us. They were having a ten year anniversary sale (The Pizza place, not Bjarki and Hrappi), with prices as they were ten years ago. We were told that there would be a two hour wait due to demand and the belt tightening economic crisis that meant everyone in Reykjavik was clamouring for ten year old prices. I later learnt that Bjarki and Hrappi waited for three hours for cold pizza and rock hard garlic bread that felt like it had been made ten years ago. I'd hate to know what the worst Pizza place in town was like... We deliberated for two minutes about the waiting time and called Dominoes Pizza. We had warm soft pizza within twenty minutes.

The Best Pizza in Town, om nom nom...

After feasting ourselves stupid we all headed down to Sodoma, the new bar that was opening that night. A live venue that Reykjavik desperately needs. Sudoku are also going to play there as well in couple of weeks, so I wanted to check the place out. To be perfectly honest I don't actually remember much about the evening, except seeing a Natalie Portman look alike and bitterly regretting not having talked to her and getting some guys number who was chatting Jo up. Why I ended up with his number and why I ended up putting it in as 'Cow Bell Ninja' on my phone is beyond my recollection. I think it may have had something to do with the bottle of rum we polished off before leaving the house, maybe the free beer at Sodoma, or maybe the bottle of nail polish remover that Jo dropped in the house before we left.

I should have talked to her...

I crashed on the futon in their front room and made my way slowly back to my own place the next day. I was out again on Saturday, it was the annual university dinner/dance and as most of the people from site were going I decided to head along myself. It was a good laugh in the end, the meal was good and plentiful, the dancing lively and the students chatty. There was an overall 'Hollywood' theme, I had been telling everyone that I was going to go as Marylin Monroe. In the event I couldn't find a dress that matched my eyes, so I just dusted off Becky's Wedding shirt. Not the shirt Becky wore at her wedding, but the shirt I wore at Becky's wedding, if you know what I mean?

Here is a link to the Google video of the full second show by Sudoku:

Sudoku Live!!

Finally, Jo was working on a song about archaeology, here it is, sung to the tune of Que Sera Sera:

When I was just a teenager
I asked myself what shall I be
Shall I be pretty
Shall I be clean
Here’s what I chose to be…

Archaeology…
How fucking insane of me
Its so very shit to be…
Archaeology

Later on I found out just
What the profession could offer me
Pretty much nothing
Nadda and nil
A life of lethargy

Archaeology…
my mediocrity
An eternal travesty…
Archaeology

After ten years of miserable hell
I finally realised what was the fee
Of all the minutes
Hours and days
Spent down on bended knee

Archaeology…
Will be the death of me
For it’s the psychology…
Archaeology

Skirnir

There is an Asian girl who works in the local supermarket, and it has thrown open a whole can of worms to do with communication. When I buy my produce and ask for a plastic bag I do it in English and she replies in English. Now, I am trying to integrate myself as much as possible into Icelandic culture, but far from being able to speak Icelandic I at least manage to say Hello and Thank You to shop assistants. It's not much but it's better than assuming everyone else speaks English (Which they do, by the way, but one must never assume). Turning back to this girl do I say Thank You in English, Icelandic or Chinese? Now again I'm only assuming she's Chinese, for all I know she could be Korean or Japanese although the Japanese are not generally known for being economic migrates. I would hate her to be Korean because I don't know what Thank You is in Korean. I learnt how to say Thank You in Chinese whilst in Singapore, but I don't want to come across as a patronising bastard who is assuming she's Chinese when she could, in fact, be Korean or Japanese. I know Thank You in Japanese, again learnt whilst in the country, but this really is hedging my bets with her background. I really could end up with egg on my face over that one. I also am not keen on saying Thank You in Icelandic, this is again an assumption, but I'm fairly sure she wasn't born in Iceland. She has an accent that isn't Icelandic, before you start calling me a racist. What do I do? This is a political nightmare!

China, Yesterday

Holy Shit, what a week. We have an impending 'enforced fun day' coming up. You know what I mean, everybody gets together to do some team building activities for the day then retires for a meal and gets drunk and it ends up with everybody telling everybody else what they actually think of them. I was OK with this idea if it was only happening on one day. Yesterday Bjarki unleashed a shit storm by telling us that they (The Fun Day Committee) had decided that we would all be going to a Summer House and staying over the weekend. I immediately refused. One day is fine, but an overnight stay means I have lost a weekend. We then got into a very bad tempered argument where I had to end defending my personal reasons for not wanting to spend a weekend with the people I have just spent the preceding and following five days (a total of twelve days straight) working with in an 8m by 15m tent (We measured it today). I like everyone on site with the exception of one person, (having said that I can tolerate them as long as we don't spend too much time in each others company) but the idea of spending my weekend in the middle of nowhere with the same people is my idea of Hell. I have been working in this career for the better part of ten years. Between ten and about six years ago I would have been the first to be up for this kind of activity. Now I am tired of the this hobo lifestyle that I lead, I am not happy with my particular situation but I have to put up with it. This is like an away job where I am not allowed to go home at weekends. Everyone else on site (With the exception of the foreign workers) can go back to their homes and other friends each and every night. I go home to someone else's house where my only possessions are what I can carry in a suitcase. My friends are ones I work with everyday and as good and nice as all these people are it is bliss when the weekend rolls around and I am allowed my own personal space. I am continually surrounded by and reminded of work so to slightly escape it for even two days is heaven. Maybe I'm a grumpy old man, I don't care, I know what I like and I don't like being forced to have 'fun' in the middle of nowhere with no escape routes. It turned out in the end that the committee had decided no such thing but had simply put the idea of a summer house on the table. Bjarki and I made our peace, so it was OK in the end.

Where I would prefer to be rather than at Fun Day

Thingtak played on Thursday night, they were playing with about four other bands of which the best was a group of fifteen year old lads, who played old bluesy rock covers but finished by playing the Dwarves 'I Wanna Be Your Pimp'. I ran into Ragnar from Skorpulifur who Sudoku supported the other week. He had a copy of the Icelandic glossy Celebrity gossip magazine 'Séđ Og Heyrt' (I have no idea what this means, any Icelandics reading, please let me know). There had been a photographer from the magazine at the gig and they had run an article on Skorpulifur in which Hannes, the singer, mentioned Sudoku. It went along the lines of; we played a few times with Sudoku a Ninja Metal band from Britain who wear Ninja outfits on stage.. Brilliant, thanks lads.

Skorpulifur Yesterday (Photo copyright Jo Taylor 2009)

One final thing before I finish and this gets too long. We moved offices this week, we are now underneath the Green Party's headquarters in a basement. We have to use their toilets, upstairs from our HQ, but because they are clean and we are not we have to practically strip out of our site gear and get hosed down in the yard. Not only that but you have to sneak past reception and through their coffee room looking for the toilet. What was once a three minute trip to the toilet has turned into an Odyssey for a piss. It's like Jason and the Argonaut's quest, except it's not a Golden Fleece waiting at the end but a Golden Stream.

Walkiesjar

I'll tell you about my Friday night shall I? I called over to Jo's and spent three solid hours attempting to push the right bits in the right place, frustratingly changing positions, sweating, swearing and bending over. Bouts of anger, when even strenuous shoving couldn't get it right and the elation when a bit slipped into the correct hole. Yes, 1500 piece Jigsaws can be tough puzzles to crack.

Jo and I were supposed to go to a Tantric Sex lesson on Wednesday. We had met for lunch the previous Sunday in a fucking Vegan cafe and found a leaflet for it. Jo was taunting me with it, then changed her mind and said she'd go. The course was for singles as well as couples, so it was fine for us to go and it seemed like something to do on a Wednesday night rather than watching the new episodes of 90210 and Britain's Next Top Model. The leaflet said there would be no physical contact or nudity, which as Lauren pointed out, was just yoga. I told Jo was going to run into the room where the course was being held and shout 'Which one is mine?' It was about this time Jo was having second thoughts about going with me and made me promise I wasn't allowed to embarrass her. The course was run by Magdelena and 'Seraphim'. What kind of name is that? This one reason fucking hippies and new-agers annoy the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine coming up with such a presumptuous name for myself; 'What's the most conceited name I can think of, ooh, I know, I'm name myself after some angels. That will make people think I'm really heavenly and beautiful.' I bet his real name is Clive.

Tantric Sex without the Nudity and Physical Contact

Anyway, in the event the place the course was being held at was way out of town and we had no way of getting there, so we didn't go and I never got to meet 'Seraphim' or Clive or whatever he calls himself this week. I was slightly relieved that we didn't go, after already having dined at a Vegan restaurant, a visit to a yoga workshop would have been the beginnings of the slippery slope into hippydom for me. And nobody wants that. We have no car and it would have been a three day trek just to reach the course centre. Since 99% of Icelanders have cars everything is spread out all over the Reykjavik peninsular. An example of this is there are no shops in the centre of town that are of any use the the layman. There's shops selling ridiculously expensive fleeces and hats to dumb tourists (66 Degree North and Cintimani) that were made for nothing in Chinese sweatshops. There are shops selling more affordable tourist tat, like statues of trolls wearing 'Viking' helmets and t-shirts with humorous logos on such as 'Cod War Survivor'. There are endless clothes shops selling the latest in Icelandic fashion, i.e. Black. But nothing useful like a telephone shop or an electrical store. Anything useful is at out of town complexes or the shopping maul that is Kringlan, where Angelos and I had to go to set up the internet in the house.

Typical Icelander goes to the shops

Poor old Duncan attracts a certain amount of interest from certain 'parties', like for instance that strange Greenlander in the English Pub just before Christ's Mass. The strangest though has to be the weird guy who comes and looks over the fence at the site and chats to Bjarki. This guy has been keeping an eye on our work for while now. He seems to know an awful lot about us. He told Bjarki that he doesn't go anywhere without his gun, when Bjarki challenged him on this and asked to see the weapon in question the guy told him he'd left it home that particular day. The last time he was at the site, again, involved in a conversation with Bjarki, he let it slip that Duncan was not actually English at all but was a Serbian. Not only that, he was a Serbian War Criminal, on the run from international justice. I guess working as an archaeologist on a high profile government funded excavation in the centre of a small capital city where people notice new residents pretty easily is the best place to hide out if you are wanted for war crimes in your own country. The guy knew it because he had been compiling a dossier on Duncan that is as thick as your arm.

Duncan


A Serbian War Criminal. Spot the Difference.

Heralder

I forgot to mention that a week ago I went to see the new film The Wrestler, it is the movies that is supposed to put Mickey Rourke back on top of his Game. I'll give you brief review of it here, but I must tell you that the next paragraph will contain spoilers, so if you want to watch the film and don't want to know how it ends, don't read the next bit. Alternatively, you could read it, but don't come crying to me when you find out what happens at the end before you've seen the film. Your choice.

The film follows Randy The Ram, a faded ex-big time wrestler on the downwards slope of his life. When I say 'follows' I mean it in the most literal sense. The camera seems to be endlessly filming Rourke's back as he wanders through his crappy life. I know why they've done it, to give the film a realistic and documentary feel, but it's pretty annoying: Will he, won't he, will he turn around! I hear the Oscars have included a few new categories this year; Best Male Back, Best Female Back, Best Supporting Back and Best Foreign Language Back. It's a watchable and enjoyable film in as much as watching someone continually fuck their lives up can be enjoyable. There are also a few too many cliches for my liking, his estranged daughter he never told he loved, his stripper girlfriend whom he never gets together with, his trailer park home that he is locked out of due to none payment of rent, etc. But one thing it does avoid is the obvious Hollywood happy ending. After a heart attack leaves the Ram reassessing his life and his lot, he tries to get out of the Wrestling circuit only to find that the thing he lives for is the roar of the crowd. The sudden end leaves you wondering if he survives the final fight against the 'Ayatollah'. It is also an interesting view of the smaller part of American Wrestling that you don't see on WWE.

Spoilers over. I used to watch the WWE Wrestling, it was great. People would slag me off for it; it's not real they'd say, the fights are faked they'd moan, it's all done to a script they'd whine. These were the same people watching Eastenders every week.

Sudoku played another gig this week, we were supporting Skorpulifur again, this time in a youth club in Hafnarfjörður. It went well although the sound coming through the monitors was very low and we fucked up a couple of times on some of the songs. Skorpulifur, however, were amazing again. The singer was wearing a dress and dancing like a Romanian Bear on a hot plate. I think we also doubled our crowd size as well, from eight to about fifteen...

Other upheavals this week was me moving in with Angelos. The lease on the original place had run out and the Alcoholic Jesus Freak was coming back from Denmark to spread the Good Word to the Heathen Icelanders, or something. Jo, Duncan and Roz all moved into a nice pad closer to town and I have moved about two minutes down the road to Kaplaskjolsvegur 89, Reykjavik 107, Iceland. You can send your emergency packages of tea here. This is the most difficult road name for a none Icelander to pronounce and was the reason why when I first arrived I would usually walk home from town after drinking, rather than try to tell a taxi driver where I lived.

I moved in on Friday and found that Angelos, being the feckless Greek that he is, preferred to sit in the dark than change the blown lightbulbs. A quick search of the premises rewarded me with a cache of lightbulbs so I set about changing all the blown ones. I was changing the one in my bedroom when there was a blue spark and the entire house was plunged into darkness. I'd been in the house for ten minutes and destroyed the place. A quick check of the fuse box revealed it was something bigger. I woke Angelos up and he called Sigur, the wife of Haldur the contractor, and she came over with her brother, who luck would have it was an electrician and was visiting her for the first time in weeks. He found the main house fuse box and there was light! Glory To Him On High! Angelos and I had both failed in our Alpha Male roles.

After this drama I went to Björgvin's birthday party which turned into an Arts and Crafts/Wrestling evening which was broken up by the arrival of five police officers. I headed into town after for lashings of more BOOZE. I have taken to using my Visa swipe card for most purchases, which is a very dangerous thing to do when out on the lash as you never know how much you're spending. When you make a purchase with the said card, you are given a receipt to sign. No one checks them and Angelos and I have taken to signing anything on the receipt when we are drunk. On Friday night, Bar 11 was visited by Mickey Mouse and Ronald Reagan.

Roman Land

I was sitting in the computer room on Monday during Lunch Break shooting the shit with Atli and Bjarki, when Hrafnkell came in and asked me if Sudoku wanted to play again this week. Stefan's arm is still fucked from his operation so Thingtak can't play the gig with Skorpulifur that they were going to play this Thursday. Ragnar from Skorpulifur asked if we could play instead, so I said, yes, why not? Two gigs in one week... Madness.

The weekend passed with no great shakes, I was going to go on a road trip with Duncan and Roz. Jo didn't want to go as she had been running around like a blue arsed fly in London for the last month and wanted a quiet weekend. We borrowed Vala's car on Friday and I was all set to go the morning after the Sudoku gig. Then Jo reminded me that it was Valentine's weekend and maybe D and R didn't want a gooseberry tagging along. I'd completely forgotten about it and, well why should I remember something like that? As it happens Duncan and Roz didn't mind having someone along (Duncan had also forgotten anyway...) but I still felt weird about it. I didn't go in the end and basically sat on my arse all weekend, trying not to spend any money.

I was working inside today and Albina (Fish Bone Expert) asked if she could use the computer to download some files. As we were chatting she let it slip that she was rushing because she had a car full of dead pigs and they were stinking the place up. She offered me a slice of the meat, they had only been dead a couple of days she said. I declined this tempting proposition.