I Wanna Be Your Dog

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

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

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

How John leaves the house before the cleaner arrives

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

In the Dungeon of Dr Clay

South of Heaven

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

The possibillities are endless

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

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

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

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

Fun Day at John Clay's

Ricky-ticky-tarvy

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

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

Rotherham on Friday night...

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

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

Letter from Jo

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

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

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

Drunk…

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

Swampinfection is probably not something that effects single 30 somethings much

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

Jesus Loveliness

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

Alex and Jo’s Reykjavik Stylee

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

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

Suduku… halcyon days

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

The joy of FUN day

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

Too much alcohol to be sure

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

“Why do birds suddenly appear…”

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

p.p.s Alex will never be my god

Back in the DHSS

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

How my car looked on my return..

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bless Bless

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

The winner by far

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

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

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

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

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

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