08 August 2006
Life note: Welcome to the Doll's House - 5 April 2005
My bank statements read like the index of Zagat's. I really must bring my spending under control.
In other news, Bots all made the mammoth trip down to the South London Theatre in order to see the play what Darien directed [not that he would - in just 16 months time - return the favour by attending my Film Festival, far more conveniently located in Angel (although of course, I do not currently know this, such is the nature of a daily diary)]. The play was quite serious and slow, and not a great deal of fun, but I believe that was all in the writing: Darien did the best that could be done of it, and that - surely - must be considered a success. Because we were in the dead end of South London none of us could really hang around too long in the bar for drinks, so I went home to bed.
Oh, and Maria was there, and it turns out she was Darien's stage manager. Cool.
4 April 2005 - Dinner with M
Last night I bought a new digital camera, five and a half weeks after I bought my last one. Nothing makes you appreciate the speed, quality, weight, size, optical zoom, capacity, exposure features, focus, flash, white balance, battery pack and giant LCD display of a £200 digicamera than previously owning a £70 digicamera.
I now have about 300 photos of my living room, plus a movie of my coffee table. Perhaps once I'm in Rio I'll find more interesting subjects to document.
I also went to Brasserie Roux, in the Sofitel on Pall Mall, and ate black pudding for the first time. I've always assumed I would hate black pudding, since it looks black and burned, and I've been a little put off by my grandfather's tales of making it as a child (essentially, he was paid to stir a giant cauldron of boiling blood and fat). Still, when I was tried some last night I found it to be utterly delicious, comparable to some of the finest foie gras. I now regret always scraping it off my plate for my pa to eat instead. Man, I gotta get me some more of that. Dinner was deliciously preceded by the best gin martini ever at Albanach in Trafalgar Square, which is rather improbably a stylish and Scottish-themed cocktail bar.
My bank statements read like the index of Zagat's. I really must bring my spending under control.
In other news, Bots all made the mammoth trip down to the South London Theatre in order to see the play what Darien directed [not that he would - in just 16 months time - return the favour by attending my Film Festival, far more conveniently located in Angel (although of course, I do not currently know this, such is the nature of a daily diary)]. The play was quite serious and slow, and not a great deal of fun, but I believe that was all in the writing: Darien did the best that could be done of it, and that - surely - must be considered a success. Because we were in the dead end of South London none of us could really hang around too long in the bar for drinks, so I went home to bed.
Oh, and Maria was there, and it turns out she was Darien's stage manager. Cool.
4 April 2005 - Dinner with M
Last night I bought a new digital camera, five and a half weeks after I bought my last one. Nothing makes you appreciate the speed, quality, weight, size, optical zoom, capacity, exposure features, focus, flash, white balance, battery pack and giant LCD display of a £200 digicamera than previously owning a £70 digicamera.
I now have about 300 photos of my living room, plus a movie of my coffee table. Perhaps once I'm in Rio I'll find more interesting subjects to document.
I also went to Brasserie Roux, in the Sofitel on Pall Mall, and ate black pudding for the first time. I've always assumed I would hate black pudding, since it looks black and burned, and I've been a little put off by my grandfather's tales of making it as a child (essentially, he was paid to stir a giant cauldron of boiling blood and fat). Still, when I was tried some last night I found it to be utterly delicious, comparable to some of the finest foie gras. I now regret always scraping it off my plate for my pa to eat instead. Man, I gotta get me some more of that. Dinner was deliciously preceded by the best gin martini ever at Albanach in Trafalgar Square, which is rather improbably a stylish and Scottish-themed cocktail bar.
Weekend Report: 1-3 April 2005
On Friday I met with Brock, Olivia, Terrie and Jacqui for a "few drinks" after work. This shortly became "missing the last train home", as my endless pursuit for the finest caipirhinia in London was foiled at every stroke – you know something is wrong when Arkansas and I can make better caipirhinias with a saucepan and an ash tray than a central London cocktail bar can with its extensive tools and resources. Even efforts by Stranded on the Strand and Smollensky's - previously both touted as reliable cachaca stomping grounds - proved both watery and foul.
On Saturday I woke up so impossibly hungover I couldn't bear the thought of leaving bed, but I managed to drag myself into the kitchen for a Red Bull, and then to the sofa to watch the DVD of Memento. I clicked on the 'Extras' section in order to see the trailer first, but there was no trailer and - eek - no way to get back to the main menu either. After about one minute of clicking on every option, I somehow 'unlocked' the 'hidden' chronological feature, and so had to settle for watching the movie forwards. It has an absurd story arc read this way round, and the character development is completely fucked (all the dark revelations come right at the start, and then the characters get nicer and less deceptive the more you watch).
In the afternoon I went to Tesco and bought a whole new wardrobe for my beach holiday, for just £25. Olivia and I then spent the afternoon making the Rio 2003 Glitter Book (or rather, we drank pink wine and glued bits of paper to other bits of paper, only to realise it was the wrong way round, took another slug of pink wine, and peeled it off to try again). We also made lots of salsa and guacamole, which was totally demolished by Olivia's party guests. Arkansas and I made a saucepan full of capirihinia, but it soon got drunk (I blame Seth) so we had to make another. Yum. We also played the Matt Barnes' Penis is Shaped Like a Teapot game and the Ainsley Harriot Game. I fell into Olivia's spare bed and slipped off into sweet dreams of an EasyJet crashing into my parents' house.
The Pope died too.
On Sunday I woke up fresh as a daisy, and skipped down the stairs to do the washing up. I then climbed into my smartest clothes (...that I possessed at the time...) and rushed off to wTim and Bobbie's daughter's christening. I associate churches with authoritatian maniacs who use mysticism and ancient artefacts to abuse and control the congregation's minds, and was not disappointed. A solid hour of Greek orthodox incantations is not as fun as it sounds. I sat with wDorothy right at the back, where we whispered plans to have a picnic later this summer, with cider and pie. There was then a christening reception where I made polite conversation with lots of people I remembered from the wedding, and was rewarded with some splendid Greek food.
I snuck out early in the evening to visit spim in his new flat in Farringdon. We drank some tea, some gin, made and ate some Famous Spimcoot Chilli, drank some port, and then went out to the pub for a quick drink.
By now shattered and desperate for bed, I staggered home, climbed into bed, drifted off into sleep, and then was immeditately woken by a text message from Zack wondering if I have time to make three t-shirts declaring "In Loving Memory of Matthew C. Barnes".
I texted "No" and drifted into dark, unforgiving sleep.
On Friday I met with Brock, Olivia, Terrie and Jacqui for a "few drinks" after work. This shortly became "missing the last train home", as my endless pursuit for the finest caipirhinia in London was foiled at every stroke – you know something is wrong when Arkansas and I can make better caipirhinias with a saucepan and an ash tray than a central London cocktail bar can with its extensive tools and resources. Even efforts by Stranded on the Strand and Smollensky's - previously both touted as reliable cachaca stomping grounds - proved both watery and foul.
On Saturday I woke up so impossibly hungover I couldn't bear the thought of leaving bed, but I managed to drag myself into the kitchen for a Red Bull, and then to the sofa to watch the DVD of Memento. I clicked on the 'Extras' section in order to see the trailer first, but there was no trailer and - eek - no way to get back to the main menu either. After about one minute of clicking on every option, I somehow 'unlocked' the 'hidden' chronological feature, and so had to settle for watching the movie forwards. It has an absurd story arc read this way round, and the character development is completely fucked (all the dark revelations come right at the start, and then the characters get nicer and less deceptive the more you watch).
In the afternoon I went to Tesco and bought a whole new wardrobe for my beach holiday, for just £25. Olivia and I then spent the afternoon making the Rio 2003 Glitter Book (or rather, we drank pink wine and glued bits of paper to other bits of paper, only to realise it was the wrong way round, took another slug of pink wine, and peeled it off to try again). We also made lots of salsa and guacamole, which was totally demolished by Olivia's party guests. Arkansas and I made a saucepan full of capirihinia, but it soon got drunk (I blame Seth) so we had to make another. Yum. We also played the Matt Barnes' Penis is Shaped Like a Teapot game and the Ainsley Harriot Game. I fell into Olivia's spare bed and slipped off into sweet dreams of an EasyJet crashing into my parents' house.
The Pope died too.
On Sunday I woke up fresh as a daisy, and skipped down the stairs to do the washing up. I then climbed into my smartest clothes (...that I possessed at the time...) and rushed off to wTim and Bobbie's daughter's christening. I associate churches with authoritatian maniacs who use mysticism and ancient artefacts to abuse and control the congregation's minds, and was not disappointed. A solid hour of Greek orthodox incantations is not as fun as it sounds. I sat with wDorothy right at the back, where we whispered plans to have a picnic later this summer, with cider and pie. There was then a christening reception where I made polite conversation with lots of people I remembered from the wedding, and was rewarded with some splendid Greek food.
I snuck out early in the evening to visit spim in his new flat in Farringdon. We drank some tea, some gin, made and ate some Famous Spimcoot Chilli, drank some port, and then went out to the pub for a quick drink.
By now shattered and desperate for bed, I staggered home, climbed into bed, drifted off into sleep, and then was immeditately woken by a text message from Zack wondering if I have time to make three t-shirts declaring "In Loving Memory of Matthew C. Barnes".
I texted "No" and drifted into dark, unforgiving sleep.
Life note: The Oxbridge Boat Race - 27 March 2005
Cambridge lost the boat race this year, but it seems only Terrie cared. She's still new to London, and so has some residual loyalty to her old university that long evaporated from us. For some reason, she also persuaded her mother she was in a brothel. After the boat race, all the Bots but Terrie and I vanished, so we spent a pleasant afternoon drinking wine in Hammersmith and then searching London for caipirhinias and met a charming and soft-handed tramp from Liverpool
We also at some point went to see Melinda and Melinda, which was much worse than Miss Congeniality 2, if you can imagine such a thing. We then made plans to move into a central London flat together, and then went to a backstreet pub near Picadilly Terrie met Fergal and Deepa for the first time, and we drank too much beer and ate a burger.
Cambridge lost the boat race this year, but it seems only Terrie cared. She's still new to London, and so has some residual loyalty to her old university that long evaporated from us. For some reason, she also persuaded her mother she was in a brothel. After the boat race, all the Bots but Terrie and I vanished, so we spent a pleasant afternoon drinking wine in Hammersmith and then searching London for caipirhinias and met a charming and soft-handed tramp from Liverpool
We also at some point went to see Melinda and Melinda, which was much worse than Miss Congeniality 2, if you can imagine such a thing. We then made plans to move into a central London flat together, and then went to a backstreet pub near Picadilly Terrie met Fergal and Deepa for the first time, and we drank too much beer and ate a burger.
Book review: The Crimson Petal and the White, by Michael Faber – 28 March 2005
This 850 page novel looks horribly daunting at first, but by the end of it all you're longing for another 850. The story immerses you in the wonderfully detailed world of early Victorian England, without it ever feeling like an awkward history lesson. A long and winding plotline introduces scores of detailed characters, from the cheapest whores of St Giles to the greatest industrialists of Notting Hill - and more entertainingly explores the interactions and dependence between the two. With so many characters, Faber is able to play fast and loose with our allegiances: we warm to the foppish William Rackham at the start, pity him by halfway through, and at the end we're cheering his misfortune. A fabulous book to immerse yourself in for a fortnight or so. I am already missing the characters. I wonder what Miss Sugar is doing now?
In other news, I sent my niece a copy of Lilo & Stitch for her birthday... It made her cry. What a wonderful gift the knowledge of a parent's mortality is.
This 850 page novel looks horribly daunting at first, but by the end of it all you're longing for another 850. The story immerses you in the wonderfully detailed world of early Victorian England, without it ever feeling like an awkward history lesson. A long and winding plotline introduces scores of detailed characters, from the cheapest whores of St Giles to the greatest industrialists of Notting Hill - and more entertainingly explores the interactions and dependence between the two. With so many characters, Faber is able to play fast and loose with our allegiances: we warm to the foppish William Rackham at the start, pity him by halfway through, and at the end we're cheering his misfortune. A fabulous book to immerse yourself in for a fortnight or so. I am already missing the characters. I wonder what Miss Sugar is doing now?
In other news, I sent my niece a copy of Lilo & Stitch for her birthday... It made her cry. What a wonderful gift the knowledge of a parent's mortality is.
Holiday diary: SNOWBOARDING 2005: APOCALYPSE PARK, AND WHAT CAME BEFORE – 20-26 March 2006
Snowboarding in 2005 was pretty much the same as snowboarding in 2004, except I was much better at it. I won't therefore bore you with a day-by-day account of the experience (see last year for that). Here then are some randomly thematic memories...
Getting there: fully forewarned from last year's horrific twelve hour coach journey, we were prepared for delay this time round and took plenty of food and water with us. This preparation should have seen us through, however as the promised three hours inevitably stretched out to fill eight hours of barely moving traffic, I began to regret being so prepared with fresh water, and my bladder grew fuller and fuller. Of course, no one had forewarned me that, just like last year, the coach toilet would be broken again. As the coach driver spoke very little English, I was obliged to simply abandon the bus and wee on the side of the road. This was bad enough in front of a coachful of cool snowboarder dudes, but even worse once the traffic edged forwards and I was a roadside display for a French school bus - a gaggle of polite little school children, their faces frozen in horror. (In the end, it turned out we were delayed because of farmers protesting against foxes. I'm sure the foxes heard their protests and heeded the placards.)
My boarding: My boarding skill developed really well: I went much faster down the slopes, turned quicker and with much more confidence. I'd like to say this was because of my natural drive to stretch my skills and develop, but I have no such natural drive. No, Fergal is completely to blame as he'd regularly take me off on 'an adventure' across the mountains, which would inevitably involve going up what looked like a very benign ski lift and then – at the top – discovering an icey, 85 degree slope was the only way home, thus giving me the choice of starting a new home up the mountain or risking life and limb in the hope that – at some point – I might actually get down without dying. Still, by Wednesday I was so confident with my boarding that I decided I'd best send postcards before I started being too brave and ended up breaking both my wrists. On the Thursday we tested ourselves to the limits and made a visit to Apocalypse Park. This was a collection of ramps, jumps and hoops to go through. Bizarrely, I found the idea of going down a steep, icey red run far more terrifying than this playground.
The company: MnkiFrki came, as they did last year, but we were also with Nugget and JP, who I don't much know. They turned out to be good fun, and JP's boarding went really well. Well, that is, after the first day. On day one, Fergal took us all to the top of a 75 degree slope which was frozen solid with ice, and then zipped off down it on his own. Even Mnki, Nugget and I were uncertain of the slope, but JP had never done anything outside of the Tamworth Snowdome before. He gave it a brave stab - hurting himself in the process - before deciding to take off his board and walk down: Error. These are not slopes you can walk down without a huge board strapped to your legs as a break. JP got to the bottom of the hill on his bottom.
Food and drink: The Les Arcs resort was clearly very aware that it was our exclusive supplier of all goods and services. The food was expensive wherever we went: ten euro for a burger, and five for fries on the side. It was even expensive to get drunk - e.g. beer was about 4 euro a half pint, whilst coke was over a quid. These rules did not apply to wine, however, where a carafe of vin chaud worked out far cheaper than a single coke, and a bottle of crisp and delicious white wine was just one euro fifty. This made rehydrating ourselves whilst up the mountain very pleasurable. We tried eating in our apartment to save money, but this was tough as the six of us were sharing just one tiny room, and the stench of sweaty boarding gear drying on the radiator did little to boost our appetites. Still, Mnki made one of her magnificent curries whilst JP invented a series of remarkable salads (this does not sound remarkable until you realise that the supermarket sold only salami and wine).
On drinking and exercise: It's amazing what happens to the metabolism when you're doing a huge amount of exercise every day. I was able to drink pretty much as much as I liked every evening (and often far more than I liked) and wake up fresh as a daisy in the morning. I suppose, to invoke the arkanerror, so long as you do enough exercise, you can drink as much as I like with no effect.
The resort: Despite this being a purpose-built winter resort, the radiators didn't work at all. When I asked the receptionist about this, she very cheerfully explained that this was normal, and then blanked me. So it was cold.
The pressing sense of ennui: Throughout the holiday I suffered from constant anxiety because I was expected to do just one thing all week long (snowboarding), and despite the fact that I love snowboarding – absolutely adore it – the whole time I was rueing my captivity and longing to be somewhere else. After a week, I was allowed to go home and then - of course - I desperately missed snowboarding.
Snowboarding in 2005 was pretty much the same as snowboarding in 2004, except I was much better at it. I won't therefore bore you with a day-by-day account of the experience (see last year for that). Here then are some randomly thematic memories...
Getting there: fully forewarned from last year's horrific twelve hour coach journey, we were prepared for delay this time round and took plenty of food and water with us. This preparation should have seen us through, however as the promised three hours inevitably stretched out to fill eight hours of barely moving traffic, I began to regret being so prepared with fresh water, and my bladder grew fuller and fuller. Of course, no one had forewarned me that, just like last year, the coach toilet would be broken again. As the coach driver spoke very little English, I was obliged to simply abandon the bus and wee on the side of the road. This was bad enough in front of a coachful of cool snowboarder dudes, but even worse once the traffic edged forwards and I was a roadside display for a French school bus - a gaggle of polite little school children, their faces frozen in horror. (In the end, it turned out we were delayed because of farmers protesting against foxes. I'm sure the foxes heard their protests and heeded the placards.)
My boarding: My boarding skill developed really well: I went much faster down the slopes, turned quicker and with much more confidence. I'd like to say this was because of my natural drive to stretch my skills and develop, but I have no such natural drive. No, Fergal is completely to blame as he'd regularly take me off on 'an adventure' across the mountains, which would inevitably involve going up what looked like a very benign ski lift and then – at the top – discovering an icey, 85 degree slope was the only way home, thus giving me the choice of starting a new home up the mountain or risking life and limb in the hope that – at some point – I might actually get down without dying. Still, by Wednesday I was so confident with my boarding that I decided I'd best send postcards before I started being too brave and ended up breaking both my wrists. On the Thursday we tested ourselves to the limits and made a visit to Apocalypse Park. This was a collection of ramps, jumps and hoops to go through. Bizarrely, I found the idea of going down a steep, icey red run far more terrifying than this playground.
The company: MnkiFrki came, as they did last year, but we were also with Nugget and JP, who I don't much know. They turned out to be good fun, and JP's boarding went really well. Well, that is, after the first day. On day one, Fergal took us all to the top of a 75 degree slope which was frozen solid with ice, and then zipped off down it on his own. Even Mnki, Nugget and I were uncertain of the slope, but JP had never done anything outside of the Tamworth Snowdome before. He gave it a brave stab - hurting himself in the process - before deciding to take off his board and walk down: Error. These are not slopes you can walk down without a huge board strapped to your legs as a break. JP got to the bottom of the hill on his bottom.
Food and drink: The Les Arcs resort was clearly very aware that it was our exclusive supplier of all goods and services. The food was expensive wherever we went: ten euro for a burger, and five for fries on the side. It was even expensive to get drunk - e.g. beer was about 4 euro a half pint, whilst coke was over a quid. These rules did not apply to wine, however, where a carafe of vin chaud worked out far cheaper than a single coke, and a bottle of crisp and delicious white wine was just one euro fifty. This made rehydrating ourselves whilst up the mountain very pleasurable. We tried eating in our apartment to save money, but this was tough as the six of us were sharing just one tiny room, and the stench of sweaty boarding gear drying on the radiator did little to boost our appetites. Still, Mnki made one of her magnificent curries whilst JP invented a series of remarkable salads (this does not sound remarkable until you realise that the supermarket sold only salami and wine).
On drinking and exercise: It's amazing what happens to the metabolism when you're doing a huge amount of exercise every day. I was able to drink pretty much as much as I liked every evening (and often far more than I liked) and wake up fresh as a daisy in the morning. I suppose, to invoke the arkanerror, so long as you do enough exercise, you can drink as much as I like with no effect.
The resort: Despite this being a purpose-built winter resort, the radiators didn't work at all. When I asked the receptionist about this, she very cheerfully explained that this was normal, and then blanked me. So it was cold.
The pressing sense of ennui: Throughout the holiday I suffered from constant anxiety because I was expected to do just one thing all week long (snowboarding), and despite the fact that I love snowboarding – absolutely adore it – the whole time I was rueing my captivity and longing to be somewhere else. After a week, I was allowed to go home and then - of course - I desperately missed snowboarding.
