This eyewitness report from Ken Perry just outside New Orleans came to me via my fiancee's brother. Sounds pretty horrendous: "No gas stations working, no grocery stores or anything functioning. Lakeside Mall (at the NO end of the Causeway bridge ) has sharks in the parking lot. I-10 bridge to Slidell is badly damaged and only emergency vehicles are allowed to use it. They are not allowing anyone into Metairie until Sept 5th unless it's business. The city of Folsom is 'gone'."
Scientists at MIT have developed a coating for glass and mirrors that they say can stop condensation forming. As my friend Gareth said, "Great news for four-eyed gits like us." Read more here.
Don't bother spamming me, I'm just a slimy mollusc!
Well, it seems my blog has come to the attention of the spammers: my last post has attracted 11 bogus comments covering such crucial topics as sugar gliders, bridal showers and budget printing! A message to the spamlords: why waste your time with my little site? I am only a slimy mollusc in the TTLB ecosystem. Why not spam one of the higher beings? Let Michelle Malkin and Matt Drudge have a taste of your bullshit. Lord knows, they have spread enough of their own!
Came across this entertaining piece on PR agency Immediate Future's website about every journalist's pet hate: jargon-filled press releases. Nice to see my former colleague Chris Wynn laying into the redundancy of the term 'mutually beneficial deal' too. As Chris points out, "There would be no deal if it wasn't mutually beneficial!"
Just added a Stumble Upon toolbar to my browser. Looks like an excellent way of creating online communities of interest, making new friends, making new enemies, etc.
Going to an evening of Pagan folk music isn't usually top of my list of things to do. In fact, a friend's connection to the band was the only reason I found myself at La Samaritaine in Brussels' Sablon district last week to see Omnia. But, as is often the case when expectations are low, it ended up being an excellent evening. Dressed from head to foot in black and sporting runes, Celtic crosses and other pagan and iron age insignia, Omnia certainly have the look, for better or worse. Once the music started though, it quickly became the only focus of attention. The musicianship of the four bandmembers - Englishman Steve Evans-Van der Harten, his Dutch wife Jennifer Van der Harten-Evans, New Zelander Luka Aubri and Irishman Joe Hennon - was first class across a range of folk styles (English, Irish, Breton and Finnish, amongst others). Original pieces sat comfortably alongside traditional works and the band's excellent stage presence and easy manner heightened the audience's enjoyment. After two sets, (around two hours of music in total), it took three encores before Omnia could eventually leave the stage to a thunderous final reception. For details of the rest of their autumn schedule, click here.
Just saw an incredibly dumb headline on a Press Association news ticker: "Comedy performer wins Perrier Award." What next, 'Football team wins FA Cup final"? or how about 'MP wins bye-election"?!
Browsing through the Guardian online earlier, my attention was drawn to this post about the Seafort Project. The project is the brainchild of Stephen Turner, who will be spending six weeks on board one of the rusting WWII sea forts off the Kent coast and, while there, blogging his experiences and transcribing interviews he has recorded on the subject of isolation. According to Turner, "The Seafort Project is an artistic exploration of isolation, investigating how one's experience of time changes in isolation, and what creative contemplation means in a twenty first century context." According to me, it's a pile of crap. Turner's 'art' consists of keeping a diary and doing a bit of transcription: big fucking deal. Of course, he being one of the greatest minds of our age, we are all agog to hear what he has to say about the Human Condition! Ha! We will learn nothing of interest about the experience of isolation from this ego-driven drivel. This is not art, it is a reality TV series without a commission. The only way Turner would have anything interesting to say about isolation would be if he were to switch off his computer and, away from the glare of publicity and smug corporate sponsorship (Thank you Mowlem! Thank you Kent County Council!), to actually spend some time totally disconnected from anyone or anything. I suggest he spend a year on the fort and, when, we have all forgotten him, then speak. Until then, admire the pretty pictures, but forget about the words.
Spent Sunday evening as an extra in 'Me again all alone' a short film being shot by Christos Kouros here in Brussels. And, despite the presence of my fiancee Carrie in one of the main supporting roles, like Andy Millman, I wasn't able to get a line! Now, some people have been rather sniffy about the new Gervais/Merchant TV series, 'Extras'. It's true that it is not 'water cooler' fodder to the same extent that 'The Office' was, but it's still hella cool. Sure, it's uneven, but the funny bits are often painfully funny ('The Mitchells' scene in the episode with Ross Kemp being a notable case in point). Jim Donaghy sums it all up nicely over at Aerial Telly. Like many classic sitcoms, the second series will be funnier than the first, and the first series funnier on second viewing.
The riff from White Stripes' 'Seven nation army' makes a surprisingly good football chant, as the Belgian fans ably demonstrated during the 2-0 win over Greece at the Roy Baldwin Stadium on Wednesday night. Altogether now: Duh-de-de-de-de-duh-duhh...
Congratulations to Pugsley - Andrew Davies to the taxman - whose new venture, the gastropub, Illtud's 216, recently opened its doors in my home town of Llantwit Major. Located in a 16th century building that most recently housed Ernie Rogers' electrical shop, Illtud's 216 is divided into two sections: a dark, low-ceilinged bar area and a much larger, light, high-ceilinged dining area. The number 216 is written on the walls in a couple of places. According to this article, the numerals were found during the renovation of the building and their origin and meaning is unknown. According to this one, 216 is the number of gallons in a mash-tun. The Illtud's part of the pub's name is rather more straightforward, being derived from Saint Illtud, after whom Llantwit is named. As you might expect from the landlord of a former CAMRA Welsh pub of the year (The Plough and Harrow in Monknash), Pugsley has stocked Illtud's 216 with a great selection of real ales and traditionally brewed ciders (I enjoyed a bottle of the very drinkable summer ale, Scorcher). The true test of any gastropub though, is its food. And here Illtud's 216 comes up trumps again. After poppy seed bread with an olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing, I enjoyed a starter of sardines in pesto with salad, followed by a main course of supreme of chicken pan fried in stilton and berry sauce, served with a garnish of cherries and a side order of new potatoes, carrots, baby corn and mange tout. A bottle of Chilean Semillon-Chardonnay complemented the food nicely. Portions are healthy (I was too full for dessert) and prices reasonable for this kind of quality (18 pounds for the two courses). High-class, yet unpretentious, it was no surpise that the place was fully booked last Saturday (luckily the courteous waiting staff were able to squeeze us in after one pair of diners ate early). Bookings should continue to roll in. In fact, Illtud's 216 should soon be attracting drinkers and diners from the more salubrious surroundings of Cowbridge or the more cosmopolitan ones of Cardiff. A welcome first for a Llantwit pub (at least in my lifetime!).
After hearing 'Munich' on Dutch alternative station Kink FM earlier this week, I went right out and bought Editors' debut album, The Back Room, and I've been playing it to death since. Sure, they've been influenced by Joy Division, Echo and the Bunnymen and The Chameleons. Sure, they sound like a cross between Coldplay and Franz Ferdinand. Sure, the album has a couple of weak moments, but when a band has got it they've got it. And Editors have got it. I like to think of it as 'the oomph factor', the spark that takes a recording beyond the sum of its parts and straight into the listener's heart, making you want to hear it again and again. 'Munich', 'Blood', 'All sparks' all do this like no other new music I have heard this year.
...Search for 'the meaning' inside. Amazon's new Search Inside feature is really rather nifty, allowing you to browse books for key terms via the online book and record store's website. At the moment the number of searchable books is comparatively small, although it is such a handy feature for browsing that most publishers will probably gladly submit the bulk of their catalogue for the Search Inside treatment. How can traditional booksellers compete with this kind of service? With great difficulty, is the short answer. That said, it is theoretically possible to add a microchip to a paper substrate such as a book cover. That chip could contain a searchable file of the book's contents that people scan for keywords with their mobile phones while shopping in a bookstore. At the moment, the cost of implementing such a system would be prohibitive, but within a few years, who knows? Certainly, over the next decade we will find more and more everyday items (books, milk cartons, etc) being drawn into the electronic domain. Cyberspace abhors a vacuum.
Head out at 10 am to see the attractive St. Mark's Church. Unlike Roman Catholic or Protestant churches, there are no seats here - the congregation stands throughout. As you might imagine, there is a strong smell of incense and a powerful atmosphere of religiosity as worshippers queue to venerate the icons.
Walking back out into the sunshine, we make our way to the Nikola Tesla Museum a few streets away on Krupska. Tesla, who was born in Serbia, lived most of his life in the United States. With a list of inventions that includes the AC motor (enabling the first large-scale power stations to be built), the neon light, the first remote control system and a wireless transmission system that predated Marconi's (and is recognized as having precedence by the US Supreme Court), Tesla has to be one of the most influential people of the last 120 years.
The museum itself is very good indeed. It begins with biographical information about the man himself, a section that includes a number of personal effects and letters from other scientific giants such as Lord Kelvin and Einstein. Rather eerily, the urn containing Tesla's ashes is also on display. The second half of the exhibit consists of a number of hands-on displays that a guide leads you through. The highlight of these has to be holding a neon tube while standing next to a high-frequency oscillator-transformer generating 500,000 volts (the tube lights up). Very Star Wars!
One small criticism of the museum is that it almost totally glosses over Tesla's more esoteric experiments and inventions, such as his infamous 'Death Ray'. However, there is a short section on his 'World's Radio Station', an attempt to create a kind of Wifi 'hotspot' network 100 years ahead of time. Tesla wanted to transmit news, music and photographs around the world from his radio tower in Long Island and to power ships, cars and factories with the 'wireless power' it could generate. Sadly, his backers (chiefly J.P. Morgan) withdraw their support before his dream could be realized.
One point of interest for serious researchers, the Tesla Museum has an archive of more than 150,000 of the man's documents, including unpublished work.
After a refreshing Greek salad at Opera on Obilicev Venac, we decide to visit Belgrade Beach. With the temperature still in the mid-30s, it is packed. There must be close to 20,000 people enjoying themselves here. The beach is located on the island of Ada Ciganlija in the middle of the Sava. One of the river's channels has been dammed at this point to create an artificial lake and a shingle beach deposited alongside. The greeny-brown colour of the water does nothing to deter the throng from swimmimg, playing water polo, riding inflatable pedaloes, etc. In fact, despite the occasional twig or weed floating past, it's actually pretty pleasant in the water. Away from the riverside, the island's volleyball and basketball courts are all occupied, an indication of the popularity of these two sports. (In fact of any team sport that involves throwing a large round ball - the previous evening our taxi was caught in a city centre traffic jam as flag waving, horn-tooting youths celebrated the Serbia & Montenegro men's team's victory in the world water polo championships).
Back to the hotel, then back out for a last night on the town. We check out a couple more city centre bars - Simbol and Fun Casino (sitting outside the latter, you would not even realise that it was a casino - it's also very cheap: a half litre of lager costing the equivalent of less than 50 euro cents!)
Flying home the following morning takes twice as long as on the way out. The reason: there are not enough passengers to enable JAT Airways (the Serbian carrier) to run direct flights from Brussels to Belgrade and back. Instead, the plane also stops at Amsterdam. This Belgrade-Amsterdam-Brussels-Belgrade circuit is a further sign that the Serbian capital is not yet fully geared up for tourists. Enjoy it before the Prague pissheads arrive.
Up at 9:30. Breakfast is 'omelette or continental?'I opt for the former - not bad, although the bread is pretty tasteless and the coffee looks like creosote.
10 am – Head to St. Sava's Temple, the second largest Orthodox church in the world. As is often the case with religious buildings of scale, the temple, started in 1894, is still under construction. Walking inside, we are confronted by stacks of blocks of marble and concrete and workmen scrurrying about. At least the outside of the church is finished and a very impressive sight it is too. The purity of the white marble and symmetry of the domes casting their spell in the sunlight.
Walking back towards our hotel, we pass a couple of bomb-damaged buildings on Kneza Milosa, a rare reminder of the Nato attack of 1999. In fact, almost all the Belgraders we met were friendly and helpful and we never encountered any animosity about our country's role in the bombing campaign. I couldn't imagine many Britons would have been so friendly towards vistors from Germany in 1951; many of my compatriots can barely contain their animosity in 2005.
After lunch outside the Hotel Moskva, a 1920s landmark where the cheese sandwich we ordered came with ham (if you are a vegetarian, Belgrade can be tricky), Jon, Stephen and I walk down to the banks of the Sava to find out about boat trips.
Finding the tourist office is difficult enough since it is the size of a small potting shed. The woman manning the information booth is helpful though and she is the first person we encounter who speaks good English. Unfortunately, there is only one boat offering river tours, the Beograd, and it leaves from the quayside in front of the Hotel Jugoslavija in Novi Beograd, at least 45 minutes' walk away.
A long walk in the sweltering heat is punctuated by a couple of drink breaks at two of the numerous floating bars on the 'New' side of the river. More of these later.
When we reach the Hotel Jugoslavija it strongly reminds me of the Bulgarian resort of Golden Sands, where I spent a childhood holiday in 1977. The combination of the concrete, the broken lettering on the roof, the look of the sports facilities and the heat combining to trigger some long forgotten landscape of the mind's eye.
Boarding the river boat, we are almost shocked to encounter other tourists, having barely seen any up till now. The tour, which encompasses a circuit of the Big War Island in the Danube, then heads up the Sava, passing under all five bridges that span the river in central Belgrade, is thoroughly enjoyable, even if the guide's commentary could have been more detailed.
Having disembarked, we decide to eat at one of the floating restaurants in front of the Hotel Jugoslavija (this area is known as Zemun). Our choice is the Club Mag, which specializes in fish dishes. My soup a la Triestina and smoked trout are both excellent and the service is the best we have come across yet.
As well as restuarants, the riverbank here also houses a plethora of bars and clubs. Of the former, Caffe Monza has a nice vibe, plush seats (doesn't everywhere in Belgrade?) and a nice line in gin and tonics, all at reasonable prices. It is also about three times the size of any floating bar I have seen in western Europe, more a house on water than a boat with music and liquor licenses. But Caffe Monza too seems small next to Belgrade's most popular nightspot, Blaywatch (yes, that really is its name). The laser show and the sizeable swimming pool in the middle of the dancefloor let you know that this is somewhere happening. Unfortunately, it is also somewhere that requires a reservation to get into. This applies to (comparatively) rich, hip westerners too, as we discover to our cost. In fact, such is the popularity of this whole area with fashionable, young Belgraders, that if you don't ring ahead you're unlikely to get into any of the clubs - other options include Amsterdam and Acapulco. 'Your name's not down, you're not coming in' indeed. At least the bouncers are polite about telling you to get lost, or as polite as bouncers can be.
One dangerous taxi ride back into town later, we search for a club called 'Plastic' that is listed as being located close to our hotel. It is closed. Time for bed.
Sunset over the Sava, as seen from top bar, the Oh! Cinema! Belgrade Fun Club Cafe. For the complete set of photos from last weekend, see this Flickr photostream.
Spent the weekend in Belgrade with friends John and Stephen. Here's a brief rundown of events:
Friday - arrive at Hotel Splendid (functional, but at 20 euros a night who's complaining?) Wander the city centre, avoiding the water dripping from the old aircon units (temperature is close to 40 degrees Celsius!) Stand on the steps outside the parliament building, imagining the crowds applauding Milosevic, or later calling for his head. After a drink break in Trg Republike, we stroll along Kneza Mihaila, the (pedestrianized) main shopping street. It could be any European conurbation. Reach the park that contains Kalemegdan fortress. Great views of the city and the confluence of the Sava river and the Danube (no wonder succesive rulers stationed garrisons here). Visit the Roman Well (an impressive 60 m deep, even if nothing to do with the Romans). "We have four rats," promised the ticket vendors; we didn't see one - no great loss. Watch the sunset from the Oh! Cinema! Belgrade Fun Club Cafe, the wonderfully named bar at the fortress. A beautiful moment. Return to our hotel, where the surly afternoon receptionist has been replaced by a much friendlier fellow, like some kind of 'good cop, bad cop' routine. Head out to dinner in Skadarlija, the city's 'bohemian' district. Actually, this cobbled street filled with restaurants where folk musicians entertain the diners, as well as a host of bars, is actually much nicer than its Brussels equivalent, the Rue des Petit Bouchers. Settling on a restaurant, we find our waiter's English to be almost as bad as our Serbian. Eventually I manage to order a Karadorde Escalope, named after the leader of the first Serbian Rebellion against the Turks. This is a veal escalope stuffed with Kajmak (Serbian curd cheese), rolled, soaked in beaten eggs, breaded and deep fried. It comes with tartar sauce and is enormous, easily enough for two. An enjoyable meal, slightly spoiled by our decision to sit outside, since that meant that street kids hassled us for scraps of food (a sign that Belgrade is still a pretty poor place) and that we were in earshot of two competing groups of musicians, creating what the Dutch call 'een wanklank' (a discordant noise). We head down the hill to one of Skadarlija's pubs, before sitting outside one of the numerous bars on Obilicev Venac, off Trg Republike. On the way back to our hotel at 1.30 am we stumble past a movie set just outside. Danny Huston is filming a new flick called 'Fade to Black' (also starring Christopher Walken) and we are mistaken for members of the crew. Cut!
In the late 80s and early 90s it seemed as if every British higher education institution had at least one Robert Smith clone. Skulking in the shadows at the Students' Union disco, these devoted creatures would only venture into the glare of the strobe lights at the familiar sound of the opening bars of The Love Cats or Inbetween Days, disappearing again as quickly as they emerged. Who were they and what happened to them all? Some enterprising documentary maker should let us know.
