So over a nice meal last night which lulled me in to a sense of false security, Tim and Cath announced that they were going to throw me out just before Christ's Mass. Yes, that's right, deep in the Heart of Winter they are going to turn me out into the streets. Talk about Christ's Mass cheer, talk about the season of goodwill to all men! I will probably have to find a bridge to sleep under and turn tricks for Sailors to get by.
$15, any ting you want...
They claimed it was something to do with inappropriate behaviour with Hüsker the cat. They said I'd been caught looking at his 'thing'. This was never proved, the cat was in my room but I am innocent of all indecency charges. But don't worry, I've been getting my own back all the time I've been here. I've been stealing their clothes and jewelry. I burnt all of Tim's Motorhead t-shirts and pawned all of Cath's necklaces. The fucker's can't throw me out without a fight.
Lauren and I went over to York yesterday in order to view a property that Lauren had found on www.cheapshitholes.com and that we were interested in moving into during our brief tenure in North Yorkshire. When I had looked up the address one thing slightly concerned me. The house was on the edge of the York Ghetto, Tang Hall (also known as Wu-Tang Hall).
Now, as a student I was always warned by my older peers that Wu-Tang was a place of misery. A dark forbidding place, nestling on the extreme edge of civilised York, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting city and flood it with a torrent of drugs, vice and chavs. Only the strong city walls prevented this creeping horror. That and the massive police cordon thrown around the estate. Armed police guards patrolled the front line between Wu-Tang and civilisation, the last bastion of hope amongst the well-to-do York denizens. In this role the Police were not unlike Vlad the Impaler and his defence of Europe against the rolling hordes of Turks in the 15th Century. The Police Chief of York had yet to call for mass impalement of the Orcs that populate Wu-Tang, but my peers assured me it wasn't long off.
Impale some sense into them!
When I actually ventured into Wu-Tang as a student I discovered that I had been lied to. Hearsay and fear had played a part in painting Wu-Tang as a den of inequity where even a wrong look would suffice to be on the receiving end of a good stabbing. Then I realised the people that were spreading these rumours were middle class students used to a comfortable life in the Shropshire Pile waited on hand and foot by servants and butlers. Wu-Tang was a little rough around the edges, yes, there were gangs of roaming kids, indeed, but all it was was a down-at-heel council estate. Nothing more. The people who filled my pretty little head with such nonsense had never been to score drugs in places like Pitsmoor, or got lost after a gig in the centre of Moss Side. No, they had no idea of how bad places can get. Wu-Tang Hall is a slightly scruffy part of the otherwise extremely higher middle class York.
I say Quentin! If we build a club, all the working class men can gather there, drink their ale and beat their wives to their hearts content and never bother the rest of York again!
But this wasn't the reason why I was concerned about the house being in Wu-Tang Hall, I was actually worried that the place would be a shit hole. The estate is full of cheap student housing and as a professional this concerned me. I am now above taking anything that comes my way in order to be housed. I will not settle for mouldy kitchens, draughty bathrooms or bedrooms overlooking the sewage treatment plant. But when we arrived I was pleasantly surprised by the place, it was above standard, tastefully furnished and the only spot of mould I saw was in the front bedroom. There was even a vacuum cleaner for Lauren. We took the place there and then and met Steve for a fish finger sandwich for lunch.
Why does the Captain have fishy fingers?
Arrival at home brought fresh news from the Job Centre. As you will recall, I have been dicked about and punished for attempting to better myself by actually finding work. You will recall my In Depth Review. You will, no doubt, remember that the man who took me through the review process filled in the form on my behalf, asked me to sign two boxes and told me everything had been completed satisfactorily. Not so... After our trip to York, I was presented in the post with the form the bloke had filled out for me with the words 'PLEASE COMPLETE ALL RELEVANT SECTIONS' written in Biro and highlighted on the front page. I looked through it and saw at least nine sections that had been left blank by the guy at the Job Centre which were awaiting my attention. I over turned the table in rage and screamed! How much more of my time was being wasted by the inefficient cunts at the Job Centre? How the fuck do they go through their process of selection of people for employment there? Do they give every one a form to fill at their interview and the ones who fill the least sections in get the job? Are prospective employees given a task of carrying out the simplest of procedures and the ones that fail spectacularly by nailing their hands to a desk or just sit on the floor sucking their feet are welcomed into the position? I am in the process of writing a letter of complaint about this very situation. Watch this space.
Ooooooh!! I could crush a grape!!!!
On a final note, I forgot to mention previously that Hrönn has started a blog about knitting, now I'm not the world's greatest knitting fan but she does make some nice things, so here is a PLUG.
Check this out: On Wednesday I went down to Rotherham Job Centre to sign on as usual on every other Wednesday. This time it was slightly different however. This time I had something to say when they asked 'have your circumstances changed at all?' Yes, I replied, yes they have. I had work for York University on Thursday and Friday. As this was legitimate and going through the books, then I thought it best to declare it. When you sign on you are allowed to work up to sixteen hours in a week and still claim your benefits. As the work was only about fourteen hours I was well within this limit, so I thought I'd do the responsible citizen thing and tell them before I worked that I was working. I told the fat lump of a lady who resembled a big dollop of shit in a hessian sack tied up tightly with string sitting behind the desk about my impeding work. Now, from previous experience I had been told that I would have to get in touch with the Barnsley Office to sort out my declaration of work. The piece of useless crap behind the desk asked me to sign on, then handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on to call and sort out an appointment when I got home. I didn't really look at the number but called it when I got home and the phone was answered by some fucking insect in the ROTHERHAM JOB CENTERE!
The Job Centre: Don't bother trying to get work!
Literally: What The Fuck? I had been there not half an hour previously! I had sat in front of a big pile of excrement and told her I had work, she sent me away with a phone number for the SAME FUCKING OFFICE SHE WORKED IN!! The fat lazy sack of dogshit couldn't be bothered to press the mouse button a few times or pick up the telephone in her pudgy fingers, mash the buttons with her sausage fingers and arrange the appointment for me there and then. I fucking despair, I really do. Office work sucks the fucking life out of people, the Job Centre seems to do more so than any other job. Mind you, working in a place that seems to consist of endless lines of tracksuit wearing fucktards demanding to know where their 'fucking giro' is would be enough to grind anyone down. But for that lazy shitbag to not even bother calling upstairs for me is beyond the Pale. How humanity ever managed to get to the Moon is beyond me...
'Houston, this is Eagle One, come in, over' 'Hello, you have reached the Houston voicemail service, we are all at lunch, please leave your message after the tone...'
Anyway, the job I was doing was teaching York University students how to field walk in a proper and archaeological sense. It was a right laugh, I basically strutted around like I owned the place, shouted at the students to work harder and laughed at them when it rained. I was staying at Anna's place for the night where she fed me a steak as big as MY FUCKING HEAD and gave me sausage sandwiches for lunch on Friday. Happy days.
Om Nom Nom...
But... Whilst in York I was also checking out a three bedroomed house Lauren had found on the Internet. I will be working in York for a period of about three months along with Lauren and we both thought it would be a good idea to get a house for the time we are there. Lauren has a shorter period to work, but the Evil Docktor Clay will move in for the last month as he and I shall be working together again. Allow me to clarify that for you. I need a house for three months. Lauren needs it for five weeks, THEN Clay will move in for the last period. Simple yes? Lauren contacted this house advertised on Gumtree and explained that we needed TWO ROOMS for THREE MONTHS. Simple? I went and saw the house, talked to the very nice Landlady, explained again WE ONLY NEED TWO BEDROOMS FOR THREE MONTHS BETWEEN THREE OF US. She seemed happy with it, I seemed happy with the house. I called Lauren and told her I was happy with the house. Lauren called the landlady to confirm a few things. Now, somewhere in between Lauren initially emailing the woman detailing our needs and me telling the woman the EXACT same needs, face to face, and Lauren calling her the mighty egg whisk of Chaos was applied and the woman told Lauren we were being expected to pay for the whole house; three bedrooms, not the two we had told her we needed and not the two she had agreed to to face to face with me! At the risk of repeating myself, What The Fuck? Didn't she read Lauren's email? Wasn't she listening to me? Was she just smiling and nodding whilst I was talking, but thinking about kittens or knitting or whatever it is that women think about? I told Lauren to tell her to get fucked, we'll find somewhere else. Fucking landlords, they think they own the fucking planet. Well, it's their loss, they could have had money off us for three months, but know they get nothing. Next time I'm in York I've got a good mind to go round and put bricks through their newly installed double glazed windows...
John left on Thursday, thank God. at least the beatings have stopped and I have regained feeling down the right side of my body. I no longer have the nightmares and neither do I have to check behind every door when I enter a room. As a replacement for John, Craig moved in. He had to move out of Marcus' place as Marcus' missus was coming back from a year long stint teaching Polish/Swedish/English/whatever in China and they had a lot of catching up to do. It probably involves that rope contraption Marcus has set up in his front room, 'for her yoga', or so he tried to explain it away to me. Whatever they were planning on doing, Craig was no longer welcome to sleep on the futon in Marcus' front room and he was cast out on the streets again. But as soon as Craig moved in we had a sexy party, full of topless teens and spiked punch. Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.
Clay's gone!! Everybody say PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
On Friday Claire and I finished off the site, along with the help from a First Year student, Richard. The three of us tore the site a new asshole along with some help of a serving of grease from the Osbaldwick chipshop. The Osbaldwick chippy is the best in York by far, I used to live around the corner and it was a regular haunt of mine after getting in from packing computer games all day at Gamestation on a Friday night. It still keeps its reputation high but gone are the photographs of various celebrities that bought their fish and chips there. Among the illustrious stars that have had a portion of 'haddock, chips and scraps, open' are Sir Michael Caine, Dame Joanna Lumley, Dame Cilla Black, and not only Ant, but Dec too. Hot on the heels of such stellar customers, Osbaldwick fisheries was also visited by the living legend that is Bob Carolgees, though whether Spit the Dog was in attendance I never found out. Mind you, having a dog that spits everywhere would not be the most hygienic visitor to a chip shop and if the authorities found out the Osbaldwick fisheries would have been closed down in an instant. What these celebrities were doing buying chips in such a far flung place as Osbaldwick I never found out. It's not beyond reasonable doubt that these stars would visit York, or even buy chips at some point during their stay. But for them to venture out the land of 'here be Dragons...' that is Osbaldwick for a portion of heart attack in batter still baffles me.
Although it is unknown whether Amy Whinehouse visited the Osbaldwick Chippy, she would always be welcome. As long as she didn't bring her drugs.
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.
Work this week has progressed as it usually does; cleaning, photographing, mapping and removing the contexts. Nothing too demanding. There was an upheaval on Wednesday when people moved house, but it all soon settled down. On the way home from work on Thursday evening it began snowing. It was a dry and cold day and it began to settle until it was laid thick over Reykjavik. The snow was still on the ground the next day and half of the site was covered. Practically everyone was moved inside the tent and the day was broken up with the occasional violent snowball fight. It was a little like Njal’s saga but with snow instead of swords. Davið provided the best target as he pretty much stood still and took the bombardment.
There was still a lot of snow and ice on the ground on Friday evening and there was a discussion about whether it would be safe to go into to town with the inebriated walk back being a potential death trap. Jo had been housebound for three days after burning her eye with a piece of ash from her fag and was gasping to get out, so that swayed the opinion and we set off into town. This was the first night the Northern Lights had been visible and their shimmering shapes accompanied us on the walk to town. We first went into Kofi Tómasar Frænda, I hadn’t been in this bar yet, but was very glad to do so. It is a really nice little coffee shop that turns into a bar later on. A very cozy little place indeed. After a cheeky sherbet we headed down to the Celtic Cross, after I forbid going in Kaffibarinn, the place owned by Damon Alburn. Jo, Duncan and I had already been in here before and it was full of pretentious wankers then and probably would be now, so I said a firm NO. In the event, it would have been better to be surrounded by pretentious wankers than surrounded by the fart that someone let off in the Celtic Cross, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. After meeting Angelos here, we all de-camped to Grand Rokk, next door. This was full of men and Jo’s idea of an Icelandic fisherman didn’t really live up to reality when she was chatted up by a fisherman who looked like he had a family of Polish Immigrants living in his face. Duncan and Roz went home and Jo, Angelos and I pressed on into further drinking oblivion. We ended up in some bar were Jo was goosed and chatted up by a bloke singing ‘Take a walk on the wild side’.
On Saturday morning Vala loaned us her car for the weekend and we planned a road trip to see some of Iceland’s beauty. The idea was to head up to the Snæfellsnes Peninsula and have a look at Snæfellsjökull, the massive glacier sitting on top of a mountain. On the side of the road we saw a crater and turned off to go and have a closer look, the road didn’t go anywhere near the crater, but brought close to a field full of tiny Icelandic horses. Roz attempted to tempt them with apples, but the first one wasn’t having any of it and turned its massive nose up at the offered treat. After driving for a couple of hours North of Reykjavik we got onto the peninsular proper and turned up the road by the side of the glacier. On top of the plateau was a frozen lake, which we stopped at and Duncan and I attempted to break the ice by throwing massive stones at it. Jo and Roz looked on in disapproval. We headed on and arrived in the tiny town of Olafsvik where we had a meal in a Hobbit inspired restraint/café. This appeared to be the only place open in Olafsvik, besides a discount clothes store with the surliest staff in the world. You’d think that if you lived in a place like Olafsvik and owned a store that the only regular customers were local teenage girls, the arrival of four foreigners may cause quite a stir of excitement. But, no, Olafsvik seemed to have sapped the life out of the staff and they remained nonplussed at our arrival. I bought a shirt for Becky’s wedding and we left. Leaving the desolation of Olafsvik behind we drove on the North coast of the Peninsular to see if we could get a better view of the Glacier. Before we left the town that time forgot we made an attempt at driving up the 4X4 track that led right by the side of the glacier. After several hairy bends and with the girl’s pleas to turn back we accepted defeat and turned the car round to the metalled road proper. The view from the road as we rounded the tip of the peninsular was fucking mind blowing. The lava fields in front of the mountain range made the whole place look like the Plains of Gorgoroth, eerily shaped rock formations jutted from the ground to add a strange and disturbing sense to the beauty of the glacier. We stopped at the crater Saxholl and climbed to the top for an even greater view of Snæfellsjökull. The vastness and intense immenseness of the glacier made everything in life seem so little and insignificant that it was quite a refreshing experience to gaze on it. The sun was setting as we headed back around the glacier and made tracks for home. Hopes to see the Northern lights were dashed as clouds moved in and obscured the sky.
Back at the flat in Reykjavik I readied myself for another evening out on the tiles. This time it was for a purpose. I had been planning all week to see Tyr, the Faroese Viking Metal band on their mini tour of Iceland. They were playing in Nasa in Reykjavik with four other bands. I hadn’t been in Nasa before and had only stood in the queue for a few minutes, so to actually go in the place was another first for me. I met Hrafnkell and Stephan during the first band’s (Perla) rather boring Prog Metal set. The next band, Dark Harvest were OK, they used to be an instrumental only band (Hrafnkell told me) although tonight they had a singer, but they played some of their older instrumental songs which were by far the better songs in their set. After Dark Harvest had cleared the stage Mammút played, Stephan told me he had done a review of their CD for the newspaper 24 Hours and gave it a four out of five. I said why wasn’t it a five out of five? He said, then they have something to work for on their next album… The average age of Mammút was 17 and they were mainly girls. Their performance was a bit lackluster, but maybe this was more to do with the placing of an Indiepop band in an otherwise very METAL line up. They had a few good tunes but weren’t really to my taste. The last of the support acts was Severed Crotch, who’s name led to a discussion between myself and Hrafnkell about stupid band names. Despite their name, they were the best band on the bill that night. Totally brutal death metal, which really got the moshpit whipped up into a fury. It was like the glory days of the Queen’s Hall in Bradford back in the early nineties all over again… Tyr came on and did their thing, and did it very well, but… I still don’t like them. I have been trying to like Tyr for years, ever since their first album came out. They have everything that I should like: They are Pagan, they sing about Vikings, they are from a Norse heritage, they are named after the Viking God of War, they have epic songs infused with Faroese folk songs and are TOTALLY METAL! But try as I might, I just don’t like them. It’s something about the guitar squeals and diddly diddly solos that I find most nauseating. The three of us left together and headed for Hrafnkell’s car where we gave Stephan a lift to the next road over (go figure, it would have been quicker for him to walk to the next bar than have us drive him there, but he took the lift…). Hrafnkell and I went for the now obligatory Klukingerburger and he dropped me off home. I was wanting an early night as Duncan, Roz, Jo and I planned on leaving early in the morning to get the most out of the car, so I was home by three… After what seemed like two hours sleep my alarm woke me up and we hit the road in Vala’s car. This trip was to go see the Volcano Hekla. This majestic beast has the name ‘the Hooded One’ as it is always shrouded in clouds. It has blown its top several times in recorded history and most of the time it is fucking disastrous for Iceland. She takes no prisoners and one of the eruptions was so bad that the Danish government considered moving the surviving Icelandic population to Zealand rather than try to reclaim the land. Luckily for us, she remained dormant throughout the day and we didn’t have to do anything as extreme as relocating to Denmark. We headed north of Hekla and sought out the farmstead oat Stöng, which was buried by one of Hekla’s eruptions in 1104. It was also Iceland’s first archaeological excavation carried out in the 1930’s. The road to the site is almost non existent and the volcanic ash that covers the area makes it feel like a post-apocalyptic environment. It’s like the Hills Have Eyes and you expect to round the corner to find groups of mutants breaking open human femurs to suck the marrow out. I think we were lucky to get out of there without our heads being stuck on spikes like some grisly trophy for a wandering band of Mad Max style land pirates. The site is covered with a building and preserved with the addition of modern turf walls. The farmstead is surprisingly large inside and would have been rather cozy, with the six foot wide turf walls in place. Roz mistook the pantry for the toilet and this led to a long discussion about the idiot boy Olaf shitting in the butter.
Over the main road and down a better made road was the reconstruction of the farmstead building and the little chapel at Þóðveldisbærinn (try saying that when you’re sober…). Unfortunately it was closed for the winter and we couldn’t get inside, despite banging on the front door for five minutes. Maybe the idiot boy Olaf had lost his keys. After this short excursion we headed down the road towards the hot springs at Reykholt. We had been led to believe it would be a natural rock pool with cascading hot water flowing freely as you sit and marvel at the spectacle of the Northern Lights. The reality was rather disappointing. What awaited us at the end of the road was a grotty swimming pool that was closed for the winter. We broke in and had a look around, then decided it would better to leave and head back to Reykjavik. Stopping at Hveragerði for the worst and most expensive burger in the history of burgers we decided to head down to the Blue Lagoon as Jo and I haven’t been there yet. The place is quite expensive but worth it, in my opinion. It’s a state of the art swimming experience of the highest caliber. It’s quite something to swim in a pool, look down and not be able to see your body because of the thickness of the nutrients in the water. After nearly two hours of being battered by the wind and rain, covering ourselves in some white substance that is supposed to knock years off and sweating it out with Germans in the sauna, we headed back home all dead beat but satisfied. Here endeth the lesson.
they are going to turn me out into the streets. Talk about Christ's Mass cheer, talk about the season of goodwill to all men! I will probably have to find a bridge to sleep under and turn tricks for Sailors to get by.
t-shirts and pawned all of Cath's necklaces. The fucker's can't throw me out without a fight.
