Chances are, you've been googled very recently. I have recently discovered it is the new way to find out about your friends. It's cheaper than hiring a private detective, more socially acceptable than stalking and much, much easier than phone tapping.
I have a friend who seems to think the more times you are mentioned on the internet the more you exist. Alas this is merely an indication of the amount of spare time you have and how prepared you are to use it to do things on the web. Having your own website helps.
What also helps to be found is having an unusual name. If your name is Robert Smith, you will get lost in amongst all of the other Robert Smiths in the world, not to mention all of the many sites dedicated to the lead singer of The Cure.
However, if your name is Hazibob Mansolatournicapopolous, you can be pretty sure there are less people with that name, but you can also be sure people will often spell it wrong, so people may not find all the references to you.
Another secret I have realised is to post articles, pictures or trivia about famous people that internet users are obsessed with (and believe me, most of them are obsessed with something). If you post a picture of Jean-Luc Picard you painted or a song about Star Wars to the tune of a rock classic, this will get propagated around the net by a process known as Spodmosis and very soon one search for your name reveals hundreds of sites mentioning you.
It also helps a great deal if you are famous in the real world or at least have some sort of role (such as performer, writer, CEO or guru) that will mean you are mentioned by other people.
Thus the most prevalent person on the web that I know personally is Claartje van Swaaij who has everything: her own web site (www.claartjevanswaaij.com), the unusual name, she performs, she posts frequently and she paints lots of pictures of Jim Carrey.
My other friend Sarah Smith, who has great difficulties with computers, is unemployed, rarely goes out and doesn't paint or watch TV seems to not exist on the Internet at all. In fact I cannot be sure I didn't just make her up. Sorry Sarah.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Gig Review: London Calling @ Paradiso, 30/4/05
Why the Paradiso scheduled this great gig on Queen's Day I don't know. Normally I love to go to this regular showcase of up-and-coming (usually) British bands, but the timing actually made it a tough decision. In the end, I went for the latter part of the second day rather than the whole thing.
When we arrived, already tired by a day spent floating in the sun, Nine Black Alps were already playing (they were not the first band). We only caught the end of them, but they sounded good. But without listening to more and/or undergoing deep hypnosis to remember it better, I can't comment any more than this. Will try to check them out and give you a more informed update.
After this, we crammed ourselves into the Kleinezaal and saw wunderkind, Tom Vek. Tom Vek makes you think of David Byrne and a little bit of Prince as I remember. But mostly David Byrne. He is a little enigmatic, but didn't seem entirely at home - a charge I would lay at the door of most of the acts there.
Next up came The Others, the answer to the question "Could Echo and the Bunny Men ever happen again?" The answer is an equivocal "yes." The music was enjoyable but nothing to grab you by the shirt collar and shake you. But there was something likable about them, and the fact they hang out with The Libertines (constantly in the British press due to drug abuse and the more shameful dating of supermodels) they will probably do well.
New Rhodes followed in the small room. Erm. My memory fails me here. I think they were enjoyable but not enough to make me go into the room rather than watching them on the screen. The live editing within the Paradiso was first rate. It was so good, it made you think you were watching a video that had been edited after the fact. Well done chaps.
Next up on the main stage were the band everyone was talking about, The Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs sit very much on the retro boat that pretty much all bands sit on these days. They have a similar sound / influences / attitude as Franz Ferdinand, who also have the Germanic name thing going on. The Kaiser Chiefs took the stage whereas other bands had just stood on it. The entertained and played their upbeat mix of influences. Sometimes making you ponder Madness in their rockier moments. Sometime making you say "Ooh, The Jam." But mostly you don't care about the influences, but enjoy a band playing good songs well together. Everything they do is tinged with humour and some lines just tingle. NB This was the only band I bought a CD for.
The small room then played host to Engineers, who follow the tradition also continued by British Sea Power of chugging out well-crafted tunes that you can't always hum, but that you don't mind that they can last for ten minutes.
By the time the last band came on, the place had emptied out considerably. It was the early hours of Sunday, and most people had been out wearing orange all day. Plus the last band, I Am X, apparently fronted by a former Sneaker Pimp, were pure electro. Retro electro. A New New Order with a harder edge, but after a long day in the sun and on the booze, not able to keep most people from their beds. Your reporter included.
In summary: British guitar pop music in better shape than it has been since the mornington glory days of Brit Pop. They all owe so much to The Clash in the same way that Brit Pop owed so much to the Beatles.
Pete’s tips for the future: There will be many, many more bands with Germanic names sounding like Franz Ferdinand / Kaiser Chiefs. E.g.: Der Wünder Bars; The Auf Wedersehen Pets; München Gladrags; Heil Kevin; Kapitein Zensible; and Einstürzende Neubauten.
When we arrived, already tired by a day spent floating in the sun, Nine Black Alps were already playing (they were not the first band). We only caught the end of them, but they sounded good. But without listening to more and/or undergoing deep hypnosis to remember it better, I can't comment any more than this. Will try to check them out and give you a more informed update.
After this, we crammed ourselves into the Kleinezaal and saw wunderkind, Tom Vek. Tom Vek makes you think of David Byrne and a little bit of Prince as I remember. But mostly David Byrne. He is a little enigmatic, but didn't seem entirely at home - a charge I would lay at the door of most of the acts there.
Next up came The Others, the answer to the question "Could Echo and the Bunny Men ever happen again?" The answer is an equivocal "yes." The music was enjoyable but nothing to grab you by the shirt collar and shake you. But there was something likable about them, and the fact they hang out with The Libertines (constantly in the British press due to drug abuse and the more shameful dating of supermodels) they will probably do well.
New Rhodes followed in the small room. Erm. My memory fails me here. I think they were enjoyable but not enough to make me go into the room rather than watching them on the screen. The live editing within the Paradiso was first rate. It was so good, it made you think you were watching a video that had been edited after the fact. Well done chaps.
Next up on the main stage were the band everyone was talking about, The Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs sit very much on the retro boat that pretty much all bands sit on these days. They have a similar sound / influences / attitude as Franz Ferdinand, who also have the Germanic name thing going on. The Kaiser Chiefs took the stage whereas other bands had just stood on it. The entertained and played their upbeat mix of influences. Sometimes making you ponder Madness in their rockier moments. Sometime making you say "Ooh, The Jam." But mostly you don't care about the influences, but enjoy a band playing good songs well together. Everything they do is tinged with humour and some lines just tingle. NB This was the only band I bought a CD for.
The small room then played host to Engineers, who follow the tradition also continued by British Sea Power of chugging out well-crafted tunes that you can't always hum, but that you don't mind that they can last for ten minutes.
By the time the last band came on, the place had emptied out considerably. It was the early hours of Sunday, and most people had been out wearing orange all day. Plus the last band, I Am X, apparently fronted by a former Sneaker Pimp, were pure electro. Retro electro. A New New Order with a harder edge, but after a long day in the sun and on the booze, not able to keep most people from their beds. Your reporter included.
In summary: British guitar pop music in better shape than it has been since the mornington glory days of Brit Pop. They all owe so much to The Clash in the same way that Brit Pop owed so much to the Beatles.
Pete’s tips for the future: There will be many, many more bands with Germanic names sounding like Franz Ferdinand / Kaiser Chiefs. E.g.: Der Wünder Bars; The Auf Wedersehen Pets; München Gladrags; Heil Kevin; Kapitein Zensible; and Einstürzende Neubauten.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Queen's Day
There are a few crazy days on the Dutch calendar. None is more so than Queen's Day - Koninginnedag. This is when the whole country goes on a mild-mannered drinking and profiteering spree.
The whole shebang kicks off on the night before, Queen's Night as it is called. This is the night those with any form of partying streak go out and celebrate the forthcoming (official) birthday of the Queen in the traditional manner of cramming themselves into or around bars and downing quite a few jars of the golden happy juice.
That night, I met an increasing number of friends in a bar on one of the "Nine Streets," so named because there are nine of them, and they are streets.
Despite the sheer numbers of people out, there is rarely any trouble. It's all very good natured and thoroughly friendly. A great night to meet new people. In many cities in the world, especially in the UK, this number of people drinking this amount of alcohol would have resulted in fights every five minutes and police on every corner.
The following day is Queen's Day. Supposedly the Queen's birthday, it's actually the birthday of her mother. But who cares. So how do people celebrate this day? Well, by royal decree, anything goes. People are permitted to wear what they like, so they wear as much orange as is humanly possible. They are permitted to buy and sell things on the street, so from early morning, people set up stalls and sell stuff they don't want. 95% of it is stuff that no one else wants either, but there are usually some good little bargains to be had and the Dutch, who have trading in their blood, get up early to snap them up. This means for those of us with nothing that morning in their blood except alcohol find that when they emerge to buy things, the things that are left are not even attractive to people who are hung-over and sleep-deprived.
This Queen's Day was spent on a boat. It's my first time on a boat on Queen's Day, and whilst the canals do at times get very congested, it is actually less congested that the roads get over certain narrow bridges. And tro get stuck in the middle of several dozen boats is a pleasure compared to being stuck between several hundred people. At least in my opinion. Some people may prefer the other way round.
Trends this year included: boats of people wearing all white instead of the traditional mostly orange (Is white the new orange?); Then later a boat of people all dressed in black (Is black the new white?).
As ever there were constants: Hastily erected podiums at key spots and the Museumplein turned into a music festival; People (mostly men, but not exclusively) urinating in every half-unused corner.
As ever the low percentage of police and trouble was a source of amazement. It must be something about the occasion and the soothing effects of the colour orange. Because it ain't the same when Ajax play Feyenoord, that's for sure.
After the boat trip - for which I will release some pictures soon - there was a mini-festival of up-and-coming British bands, London Calling. But this I will speak of later.
So I say, enjoy the weather (if it's nice where you are) and wear orange as often as possible. Even if it clashes with your hair.
The whole shebang kicks off on the night before, Queen's Night as it is called. This is the night those with any form of partying streak go out and celebrate the forthcoming (official) birthday of the Queen in the traditional manner of cramming themselves into or around bars and downing quite a few jars of the golden happy juice.
That night, I met an increasing number of friends in a bar on one of the "Nine Streets," so named because there are nine of them, and they are streets.
Despite the sheer numbers of people out, there is rarely any trouble. It's all very good natured and thoroughly friendly. A great night to meet new people. In many cities in the world, especially in the UK, this number of people drinking this amount of alcohol would have resulted in fights every five minutes and police on every corner.
The following day is Queen's Day. Supposedly the Queen's birthday, it's actually the birthday of her mother. But who cares. So how do people celebrate this day? Well, by royal decree, anything goes. People are permitted to wear what they like, so they wear as much orange as is humanly possible. They are permitted to buy and sell things on the street, so from early morning, people set up stalls and sell stuff they don't want. 95% of it is stuff that no one else wants either, but there are usually some good little bargains to be had and the Dutch, who have trading in their blood, get up early to snap them up. This means for those of us with nothing that morning in their blood except alcohol find that when they emerge to buy things, the things that are left are not even attractive to people who are hung-over and sleep-deprived.
This Queen's Day was spent on a boat. It's my first time on a boat on Queen's Day, and whilst the canals do at times get very congested, it is actually less congested that the roads get over certain narrow bridges. And tro get stuck in the middle of several dozen boats is a pleasure compared to being stuck between several hundred people. At least in my opinion. Some people may prefer the other way round.
Trends this year included: boats of people wearing all white instead of the traditional mostly orange (Is white the new orange?); Then later a boat of people all dressed in black (Is black the new white?).
As ever there were constants: Hastily erected podiums at key spots and the Museumplein turned into a music festival; People (mostly men, but not exclusively) urinating in every half-unused corner.
As ever the low percentage of police and trouble was a source of amazement. It must be something about the occasion and the soothing effects of the colour orange. Because it ain't the same when Ajax play Feyenoord, that's for sure.
After the boat trip - for which I will release some pictures soon - there was a mini-festival of up-and-coming British bands, London Calling. But this I will speak of later.
So I say, enjoy the weather (if it's nice where you are) and wear orange as often as possible. Even if it clashes with your hair.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
With Clogs On...
I returned last night to be confronted on the stairs behind my apartment door by a mouse. A tiny mouse, not long on this Earth. At first he seemed not overly disturbed by my presence, which I think was more to do with fact he did not know yet how to react to such a massive, handsome, two-legged thing.
This was my chance to bond with it and make it my constant travelling companion. I would love him and pet him and call him George, Or Georgina.
The Dutch/Chinese part of my brain told me I should stamp on it. I was close enough, and he still enough. But that would have resulted in a rather horrible cleaning job and a serious reduction in karma. I would probably come back as an estate agent.
So instead, I faffed. Debating where I could get something to catch him in without alerting him to my intent. He sensed the danger and decided given my height and good looks, he would opt for flight rather than fight.
Unfortunately for him, he was too small to get back up the steps, so instead he ran down and out the door to some sort of freedom.
When I looked out on the landing, there was no sign of the little fellow. I presumed he would continue downwards until he came to the street or a door he could squeeze under. Waiting until he was big enough to jump back up the stairs and return for some murine retribution.
I went for a celebratory piss, such as Scott or Branson might have done after one of their own personal victories over the forces of nature. Beside the latrine is a bucket used for cleaning and occasional liquid transportation activities. It was a tiny figure. Another baby mouse.
This one was even smaller and cuter than the last. And also more stupid: he had got himself trapped in a bucket that no amount of spirited jumping could get him out of.
Hmmm... bond and make a friend - perhaps keeping him in the bucket until he was strong enough to jump out of it? - or throw bucket upside down over toilet and flush.
Whatever happens to my soul, my thoughts are not going on to the next stage of enlightenment. I'm probably going to come back with the brain of a fashion model.
In the end, the lucky mouse was given somewhat of a sporting chance by being ejected out of the skylight onto the ledge around the roof of the building that is there to catch rain and fireworks. Hopefully a cat from the neighbourhood watch will find him and quickly dispatch him - cats will always come back as... cats - or he will survive the cold, wet night and become a tough, street-wise super-mouse and come back one day with his brother from the bottom of the stairs and kick my sorry two-legged arse.
Clearly there is a new batch of babies in the mouse portion of the More household. It is clear that the month of apparent peace on this front has merely been a period of regrouping and repopulation. In the last week there had suddenly been noises whereas, for a while there had been none. There was even evidence of a toxic party in the cupboard under the sink. This is where the mice, having grown resistant by occasional nibbling on the poison I laid out for them, decided they liked the taste and went mad, tearing open the packet of poison and spreading it all over the cupboard. I hoped their hangovers were fatal. In fact the thoughts I had when I was cleaning up the mess they had made will surely mean when I come back I will have the brain of a wrestler.
This was my chance to bond with it and make it my constant travelling companion. I would love him and pet him and call him George, Or Georgina.
The Dutch/Chinese part of my brain told me I should stamp on it. I was close enough, and he still enough. But that would have resulted in a rather horrible cleaning job and a serious reduction in karma. I would probably come back as an estate agent.
So instead, I faffed. Debating where I could get something to catch him in without alerting him to my intent. He sensed the danger and decided given my height and good looks, he would opt for flight rather than fight.
Unfortunately for him, he was too small to get back up the steps, so instead he ran down and out the door to some sort of freedom.
When I looked out on the landing, there was no sign of the little fellow. I presumed he would continue downwards until he came to the street or a door he could squeeze under. Waiting until he was big enough to jump back up the stairs and return for some murine retribution.
I went for a celebratory piss, such as Scott or Branson might have done after one of their own personal victories over the forces of nature. Beside the latrine is a bucket used for cleaning and occasional liquid transportation activities. It was a tiny figure. Another baby mouse.
This one was even smaller and cuter than the last. And also more stupid: he had got himself trapped in a bucket that no amount of spirited jumping could get him out of.
Hmmm... bond and make a friend - perhaps keeping him in the bucket until he was strong enough to jump out of it? - or throw bucket upside down over toilet and flush.
Whatever happens to my soul, my thoughts are not going on to the next stage of enlightenment. I'm probably going to come back with the brain of a fashion model.
In the end, the lucky mouse was given somewhat of a sporting chance by being ejected out of the skylight onto the ledge around the roof of the building that is there to catch rain and fireworks. Hopefully a cat from the neighbourhood watch will find him and quickly dispatch him - cats will always come back as... cats - or he will survive the cold, wet night and become a tough, street-wise super-mouse and come back one day with his brother from the bottom of the stairs and kick my sorry two-legged arse.
Clearly there is a new batch of babies in the mouse portion of the More household. It is clear that the month of apparent peace on this front has merely been a period of regrouping and repopulation. In the last week there had suddenly been noises whereas, for a while there had been none. There was even evidence of a toxic party in the cupboard under the sink. This is where the mice, having grown resistant by occasional nibbling on the poison I laid out for them, decided they liked the taste and went mad, tearing open the packet of poison and spreading it all over the cupboard. I hoped their hangovers were fatal. In fact the thoughts I had when I was cleaning up the mess they had made will surely mean when I come back I will have the brain of a wrestler.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Book Review: The Small Bachelor by PG Wodehouse
The hero of this very typical Wodehouse novel is a Small Bachelor because he lives in what is described as a Small Bachelor Apartment. This book has all the usual elements of Wodehouse stories which even when transplanted from rural England to New York don't change too much. There are the usual Gentlemen of leisure, ineffectual criminals and efficient butlers. There are the lines that drip wit like an overweight jogger. And then of course there is the subtle twists of language that make you realise English is a modelling substance more like clay than Lego bricks.
There is no point in me spouting off about how good the writing is in the bad English that I am often tending to use (illustrative example), it's best to just slip in some of the better lines, albeit out of context...
"His lordship closed the door behind Mrs Waddington and stood for some moments in profound thought. He may have been wondering what was the earliest he could expect a cocktail, or he may have been musing on some deeper subject - if there is a deeper subject."
"Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse."
and of course the fantastic exclamation... "Sweet artichokes of Jerusalem!"
There is no point in me spouting off about how good the writing is in the bad English that I am often tending to use (illustrative example), it's best to just slip in some of the better lines, albeit out of context...
"His lordship closed the door behind Mrs Waddington and stood for some moments in profound thought. He may have been wondering what was the earliest he could expect a cocktail, or he may have been musing on some deeper subject - if there is a deeper subject."
"Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse."
and of course the fantastic exclamation... "Sweet artichokes of Jerusalem!"
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Book Review: Amsterdam - A Brief History of the City by Geert Mak
This book tells the story of the greatest city in the world from swampy bank to the top British Stag (Bachelor) Party destination.
It tells of a city of tolerence, even when all over europe, various religious groups were being ousted, toasted or forced to recant their crazy beliefs.
The story is often not told linearly, as certain [schemes] are followed from start to finished and then we jump back many years to follow the seeds and start of the next one. Occasionally years speed past in a matter of paragraphs, but the book is best when specific events or eras are deligtfully recreated. In particular the sad decline of Rembrandt paralleled with the life of the subject of one of his more unconventional pictures - the suspended body of an executed girl.
The book really paints some very evocative pictures of times long since sunk beneath the mud and bicycles that line the bottoms of the canals. I recommened it to anyone who lives here, lived here or wants to live here. If you're really keen, you can buy the Dutch-language original.
It tells of a city of tolerence, even when all over europe, various religious groups were being ousted, toasted or forced to recant their crazy beliefs.
The story is often not told linearly, as certain [schemes] are followed from start to finished and then we jump back many years to follow the seeds and start of the next one. Occasionally years speed past in a matter of paragraphs, but the book is best when specific events or eras are deligtfully recreated. In particular the sad decline of Rembrandt paralleled with the life of the subject of one of his more unconventional pictures - the suspended body of an executed girl.
The book really paints some very evocative pictures of times long since sunk beneath the mud and bicycles that line the bottoms of the canals. I recommened it to anyone who lives here, lived here or wants to live here. If you're really keen, you can buy the Dutch-language original.
I'm Eastern European - It's Official
Last night after another good show, I was speaking to a table of Dutch students who asked me where I was from. This was to settle an arguement between them as to whether I was Polish or Czech. This is not the first time I have been accused of being Eastern European. It's happened quite a few times. Most noticably when a Croatian girl assumed I was Russian having played a Russian character in one show.
Maybe they're wight and I'm wrong. Who knows.
Dos Verdanja.
Pjrtor
Maybe they're wight and I'm wrong. Who knows.
Dos Verdanja.
Pjrtor
Monday, March 28, 2005
I'm Belgian - It's official
Last Friday, whilst attempting to communicate in my drunken Dutch in a crouded, noisy bar, I was accused of being Belgian. This is the third time this has happened. It is now irrefutable. I am officially Belgian.
If I was Dutch it would be an insult. Like being accused of being Welsh when you English, or Australian when you're a Kiwi. But to accuse me of coming from a Dutch(ish)-speaking country when trying to communicate in that language is a compliment . I would take Surinamese, Antillian and South African also as compliments. German in this context would merely get a scowl. And if I were accused of being Japanese, I would have to pull the oddest of faces.
Anyway, enough Belgian waffling, must go watch TV. it is currently trying to break the record it has already set for saying 'tsunami' as many times in one minute. And there hasn't even been reports of one yet. Oh when did the news become so fickle and buzz-wordy?
If I was Dutch it would be an insult. Like being accused of being Welsh when you English, or Australian when you're a Kiwi. But to accuse me of coming from a Dutch(ish)-speaking country when trying to communicate in that language is a compliment . I would take Surinamese, Antillian and South African also as compliments. German in this context would merely get a scowl. And if I were accused of being Japanese, I would have to pull the oddest of faces.
Anyway, enough Belgian waffling, must go watch TV. it is currently trying to break the record it has already set for saying 'tsunami' as many times in one minute. And there hasn't even been reports of one yet. Oh when did the news become so fickle and buzz-wordy?
Monday, March 21, 2005
Band Names
Sometimes my thought processes get turned into something more tangible...
http://www.mrpetermore.com/Bandnames.htm
http://www.mrpetermore.com/Bandnames.htm
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Musical circles
What I like about the music scene right now, is that half the bands sound like The Clash. I miss The Clash, and it's time they and other early-eighties punk and indie sounds were reinvented/repackaged. That time is now. And I'm enjoying it. Looks like the Buzzcocks were spot on when they sang at the time that "It's all nostalgia for an age yet to come."
Every style and band from that era seems to have it's own tribute band. Some, like The Clash, have several.
Even Led Zepplin have their own Zepteens band, The Music. How sweet.
Every style and band from that era seems to have it's own tribute band. Some, like The Clash, have several.
Even Led Zepplin have their own Zepteens band, The Music. How sweet.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Sneeuw (snow)
The countryside, and much of the townscape, has a magical feel to it at the monement. After a couple of days of snow the place has taken on the character of a Christmas Card. It only lacks a chirpy little Robin to come and stand around in the foreground and eye up a sprig of holly.
Suddenly cycling becomes more akin to snowboarding. At first it's quite pleasurable as you scatter the fresh layer layer of snow without any real hinderence. That is until it starts getting icy. The previously cycled grooves become glass-like and piles of previously-parted snow become solid, impenetrable mountains. Then it's better to take the gritted roads (if they have been by then) or the tram.
Just as it does in England when it happens, the snow all but brings the country to a halt. It takes about a day for the gemeente (council) to find where they left the grit and snowploughs the last time there was snow.
The trains goes into underdrive. The train system in the Netherlands compared to the UK is pretty reliable. Compared to some other places it is not. But when something goes wrong, it becomes a shambles. It takes a long time to not only identify it and make other arrangements, but even longer to tell the long-suffering passengers what to expect and what they can do. And don't bother asking any of the ground staff. They aren't told either and it's not their job to deal with it.
On Thursday for instance, it took the best part of an hour of saying there are severe delays and a reduced service before we were finally told to abandon all hope all ye who seek Leiden on this line. If I'd have been told to head to another station when I arrived, I'd have only been 30 minutes late for work. Not an hour and a half.
The "severe delays and reduced service" were so severe and reduced that the following day there were still no trains running. I know this because I checked the web site before I left. Thgey may not tell their ground staff anything, but the web site is sacred.
Suddenly cycling becomes more akin to snowboarding. At first it's quite pleasurable as you scatter the fresh layer layer of snow without any real hinderence. That is until it starts getting icy. The previously cycled grooves become glass-like and piles of previously-parted snow become solid, impenetrable mountains. Then it's better to take the gritted roads (if they have been by then) or the tram.
Just as it does in England when it happens, the snow all but brings the country to a halt. It takes about a day for the gemeente (council) to find where they left the grit and snowploughs the last time there was snow.
The trains goes into underdrive. The train system in the Netherlands compared to the UK is pretty reliable. Compared to some other places it is not. But when something goes wrong, it becomes a shambles. It takes a long time to not only identify it and make other arrangements, but even longer to tell the long-suffering passengers what to expect and what they can do. And don't bother asking any of the ground staff. They aren't told either and it's not their job to deal with it.
On Thursday for instance, it took the best part of an hour of saying there are severe delays and a reduced service before we were finally told to abandon all hope all ye who seek Leiden on this line. If I'd have been told to head to another station when I arrived, I'd have only been 30 minutes late for work. Not an hour and a half.
The "severe delays and reduced service" were so severe and reduced that the following day there were still no trains running. I know this because I checked the web site before I left. Thgey may not tell their ground staff anything, but the web site is sacred.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Book Review: The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
I started reading this because everbody else is. I am not particularly sheep-like, but as an improviser it is good to be knowledgable of the world around you. What people are reading, what people are watching, who are the people that people are following right now. (In both senses.)
Nobody has yet called out Dan Brown or The Da Vinci code as a book style in my presence, but maybe that will change when they make the film. As they certainly will. It's a very filmable book. But then modern thrillers tend to be very filmable, which I am sure is no accident. After all, you can make more on selling the film rights than on the book sales. It's something every financially-conscious novelist should bear in mind.
So what will I do when someone shouts out Dan Brown as a suggestion? Well, there is nothing at all special about the literary style. It is the same as a multiitude of other modern thriller writers. If you asked me the difference between Dan Brown and Dan Patterson, I'd have to say, "Er, they have different parents?" Probably.
No, the difference is in the subjects. If someone suggests Dan Brown, I will start making anagrams of everyone's name or discovering that van Gogh's sunflowers is really a map that tells us where William of Orange's hidden gold is. If someone shouts out Dan Patterson, I'll... oh, I'll have to read another one now.
In short: The Da Vinci Code is a great exploration of the Grail myth and explorer of the murky depths of religious history wrapped up as a conventional modern thriller. A thriller that pulls its punches by implicating then exonerating sinister, shadowy, religious groups such as Opus Dei and The Vatican.
Nobody has yet called out Dan Brown or The Da Vinci code as a book style in my presence, but maybe that will change when they make the film. As they certainly will. It's a very filmable book. But then modern thrillers tend to be very filmable, which I am sure is no accident. After all, you can make more on selling the film rights than on the book sales. It's something every financially-conscious novelist should bear in mind.
So what will I do when someone shouts out Dan Brown as a suggestion? Well, there is nothing at all special about the literary style. It is the same as a multiitude of other modern thriller writers. If you asked me the difference between Dan Brown and Dan Patterson, I'd have to say, "Er, they have different parents?" Probably.
No, the difference is in the subjects. If someone suggests Dan Brown, I will start making anagrams of everyone's name or discovering that van Gogh's sunflowers is really a map that tells us where William of Orange's hidden gold is. If someone shouts out Dan Patterson, I'll... oh, I'll have to read another one now.
In short: The Da Vinci Code is a great exploration of the Grail myth and explorer of the murky depths of religious history wrapped up as a conventional modern thriller. A thriller that pulls its punches by implicating then exonerating sinister, shadowy, religious groups such as Opus Dei and The Vatican.
"First left past Utrecht, turn south at the old windmill
and after 300 metres start digging at the X-shaped bush."
Monday, February 14, 2005
Older
The Fifth of February is what in future generations could well be hailed as More Day. Obviously the great thing for which I am to be remembered, has not occurred yet. Or if it has, it certainly didn't seem great at the time.
My exact age is still a big debate amongst leading archeologists who put it at somewhere between the Big Bang and the ten year anniversary of the making of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
And my birthday was a somewhere between the Big Bang and a viewing of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And one thing it certainly was is full of girls. I had not planned it this way - I invited pretty much everyone I knew here who I thought would go. Just as many boys as girls, I thought. It just happened that when the group reached its peak (volume-wise), in an Irish bar on the Leidseplein, there were 13 people (by my calculations), three of whom were male.
It was drawn to my attention especially when we got up to move on (then 3 girls down), and a little feller comes up to me as the instigator and implores me not to leave and declares it to be a crime that one guy can get up and have so many women follow him. Trust me, it doesn't happen every day. Not even every birthday.
So I led my band of Disney-named Dames (Hanna, Anna, Joanna, Claartje, Claire) headed off out into the dizzy night of Amsterdam. It all starts to get very hazy after that. But a good time was had by all.
Well by me, at least, and everyone else said they enjoyed it. But who cares? It wasn't their birthday.
My exact age is still a big debate amongst leading archeologists who put it at somewhere between the Big Bang and the ten year anniversary of the making of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
And my birthday was a somewhere between the Big Bang and a viewing of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And one thing it certainly was is full of girls. I had not planned it this way - I invited pretty much everyone I knew here who I thought would go. Just as many boys as girls, I thought. It just happened that when the group reached its peak (volume-wise), in an Irish bar on the Leidseplein, there were 13 people (by my calculations), three of whom were male.
It was drawn to my attention especially when we got up to move on (then 3 girls down), and a little feller comes up to me as the instigator and implores me not to leave and declares it to be a crime that one guy can get up and have so many women follow him. Trust me, it doesn't happen every day. Not even every birthday.
So I led my band of Disney-named Dames (Hanna, Anna, Joanna, Claartje, Claire) headed off out into the dizzy night of Amsterdam. It all starts to get very hazy after that. But a good time was had by all.
Well by me, at least, and everyone else said they enjoyed it. But who cares? It wasn't their birthday.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Book review: Hard Times by Charles Dickens
It was good to dip into the master again. Charles Dickens wrote well-constructed stories (if you ignore the occassional howling coincidences, but then these are a bit part of life) using delightfully constructed sentances. The language is very understandable - he is far less likely to over construct than many of his contempories. The characters are great - usually just a dog's hair larger than life, and showing us people really haven't changed all that much in the last 100-odd years. He is also a master of the catchphrase, and often done so subtly you don't realise there is a catchphrase going on. Despite the satire in many of the sections, his books are filled with compassion for us humans stuck in situations we made without even really trying.
Hard Times itself depicts a ficticious northern industrial town, where ordinary inhabitants aren't even considered full people, just 'Hands'. The people who run the behemothic factories that consume them every morning only to spew them back out into the smoggy town are shown to be false, self-deluding men of narrow ideals and no real understanding of anything other than figures. An amusing yet saddening book, funny in a troubling way. It would be nice to smile at this book as a picture of a time that has long since left us. A time where people were just fuel for the factories. But in many places in the world, this is still true. Coketown may not exist any more, but Niketown does.
Hard Times itself depicts a ficticious northern industrial town, where ordinary inhabitants aren't even considered full people, just 'Hands'. The people who run the behemothic factories that consume them every morning only to spew them back out into the smoggy town are shown to be false, self-deluding men of narrow ideals and no real understanding of anything other than figures. An amusing yet saddening book, funny in a troubling way. It would be nice to smile at this book as a picture of a time that has long since left us. A time where people were just fuel for the factories. But in many places in the world, this is still true. Coketown may not exist any more, but Niketown does.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Habouring Thoughts
The Chinese have announced figures which show that Shanghai is now the world's biggest harbour, knocking Rotterdam off the top spot it has enjoyed for many years. The figures come from the Chinese government and so are possibly not completely to be trusted. But they are believable. Shanghai's (and indeed the whole of China's) growth of late has been phenomenal.
There's a lot of 'em, and the contry is no longer run on purely communist lines, if indeed it ever was. In fact, in my experience, the Chinese are not natural communists. They have an entrepreneurial spirit that leaves most countries to shame.
There have been a few stories about Shanghai over the last few months. Not for any single reason, but they have all served to give me pangs of something like home sickness. I think another visit is due.
There's a lot of 'em, and the contry is no longer run on purely communist lines, if indeed it ever was. In fact, in my experience, the Chinese are not natural communists. They have an entrepreneurial spirit that leaves most countries to shame.
There have been a few stories about Shanghai over the last few months. Not for any single reason, but they have all served to give me pangs of something like home sickness. I think another visit is due.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Liver Aid
Having said what I said about Charity records, I should say I don't count Charity Concerts in the same bucket. (If that's the phrase.) These are not the pile of eviless charity records are. Admittedly, they are always littered with the latest teen sensations, over-rated TV hosts and other unworthies, but they are hupefully not all gathered in one place and singing something so lame that if it were a horse, they'd have to shoot it. Mind you for some latest teen sensations and all over-rated TV hosts this is not an unusual state of affairs. Their songs being typically lame. But charity songs plum depths of lameness that do not normally make it through the (admittedly low) quality threshold of the guardians of pop music. < /spleen>
The point I was trying to get to was that on Thursday I went to the impromptu charity concert constructed in Amsterdam's Dam Square. The concert featured such Dutch luminaries and Bløf and DJ Tiesto and was not surprisingly very well attended. It was free, but many people went round with the modern equivalent of the bucket, the clipboard and pile of bank transfer forms. No one can object to this. All the money you spent on beer from the alcohol stands went straight to the charities, which is a great idea. I must confess I woke up with a hangover, but my conscience was clear.
The point I was trying to get to was that on Thursday I went to the impromptu charity concert constructed in Amsterdam's Dam Square. The concert featured such Dutch luminaries and Bløf and DJ Tiesto and was not surprisingly very well attended. It was free, but many people went round with the modern equivalent of the bucket, the clipboard and pile of bank transfer forms. No one can object to this. All the money you spent on beer from the alcohol stands went straight to the charities, which is a great idea. I must confess I woke up with a hangover, but my conscience was clear.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
International Rescue
All New Years feelings were tempered a little this year with news of the ever-increasing Tsunami death toll in Asia. The figures were shocking when they were first put out at over 10,000. Now the estimates are in the region of 150,000 it's quite overwhelming. The Dutch press is a little less timid than the Press in other countries about printing pictures of dead people. It's not (usually) done gratuitously, more when it is a representative picture. The one of a pool of muddy water chock full of floating wood and bodies really summed it all up for me.
In the wake of such a disaster, there are always terrible after effects. Disease, food shortage, and, further afield, Dutch B-list music stars have already set a date to get together to record a charity song. Not to sound flippant - it is very little to endure compared to hunger and disease - but it is unnecessary. Especially as charity is already flooding in and it is not a forgotten or under-publicised tragedy. So rather than buying a record where all PROFITS go to charity, isn't it better to NOT have another weak and aggravating song to be overplayed on the radio and to give the money direct so that all of the MONEY goes to charity.
And before you ask, no I did not like Feed The World. In fact the first moment I heard it, I though, here is a song that will haunt my generation. Having said that, as charity records go, it was one of the better ones. But that ain't saying much.
In summary: help charities you believe in to the amount of your choosing, but by no means ever buy a charity record, it only encourages them.
In the wake of such a disaster, there are always terrible after effects. Disease, food shortage, and, further afield, Dutch B-list music stars have already set a date to get together to record a charity song. Not to sound flippant - it is very little to endure compared to hunger and disease - but it is unnecessary. Especially as charity is already flooding in and it is not a forgotten or under-publicised tragedy. So rather than buying a record where all PROFITS go to charity, isn't it better to NOT have another weak and aggravating song to be overplayed on the radio and to give the money direct so that all of the MONEY goes to charity.
And before you ask, no I did not like Feed The World. In fact the first moment I heard it, I though, here is a song that will haunt my generation. Having said that, as charity records go, it was one of the better ones. But that ain't saying much.
In summary: help charities you believe in to the amount of your choosing, but by no means ever buy a charity record, it only encourages them.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Whiz Bang
Many countries have a day when the people set off fireworks in celebration of something or other. In the Netherlands it is New Year's Eve. A few days before, the build-up begins. Occasional pooms of firecrackers litter the soundscape. The frequency increases gradually, at first, but actually it is an exponential curve so that the rate of firecracker explosions and rocket launches increases until the evening of the day itself. This is when kids are to be seen throwing firecrackers at cars and occasional bursts of cluster-firecrackers. Through the evening, there are increasing numbers of fireworks launched.
Upon the hour of change itself, all hell breaks loose. What before sounded like sporadic gunfire, becomes a full-on assault. The world, his wife and their 8-year-old son are on the street setting off huge rounds of firecrackers and launching all manner of fizzing, popping, whooshing, whizzing, spinning, sparkling, sploffing, poofing, booming things. Mostly in a way that is frighteningly unsafe.
In the UK, our firework day is the 5th of November and celebrates a failed attempt at what today would be called terrorism, but was probably more of a revolutionary thing. The plan was to blow up the seat of government, and there are those that joke that Guy Fawkes was the last man to enter Parliament with honest intent. The joke would be somewhat different had he succeeded, I am sure. But in the lead up to the celebration of the thwarting of the gunpowder plot (celebrated by setting of fireworks and burning effigies of Mr Fawkes), there are so many public service announcements and advertisements about the dangers of fireworks that most English people are convinced even looking at one can cause harm. And as a rule, they are set off by following the instructions to the letter.
I am always surprised at the lack of death and injury the day yields. I read that one kid was killed from a firework to the face, but have not seen any figures for injuries. They must be high. Alcohol, exuberance and fireworks are not the safest combination there is. That is probably lukewarm tea, light enjoyment and a nice warm scone. Happy New Year, everybody, raise your scones high.
Upon the hour of change itself, all hell breaks loose. What before sounded like sporadic gunfire, becomes a full-on assault. The world, his wife and their 8-year-old son are on the street setting off huge rounds of firecrackers and launching all manner of fizzing, popping, whooshing, whizzing, spinning, sparkling, sploffing, poofing, booming things. Mostly in a way that is frighteningly unsafe.
In the UK, our firework day is the 5th of November and celebrates a failed attempt at what today would be called terrorism, but was probably more of a revolutionary thing. The plan was to blow up the seat of government, and there are those that joke that Guy Fawkes was the last man to enter Parliament with honest intent. The joke would be somewhat different had he succeeded, I am sure. But in the lead up to the celebration of the thwarting of the gunpowder plot (celebrated by setting of fireworks and burning effigies of Mr Fawkes), there are so many public service announcements and advertisements about the dangers of fireworks that most English people are convinced even looking at one can cause harm. And as a rule, they are set off by following the instructions to the letter.
I am always surprised at the lack of death and injury the day yields. I read that one kid was killed from a firework to the face, but have not seen any figures for injuries. They must be high. Alcohol, exuberance and fireworks are not the safest combination there is. That is probably lukewarm tea, light enjoyment and a nice warm scone. Happy New Year, everybody, raise your scones high.
Fireworks - Scones - The Choice is Yours
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Happy 2005
This year I promise to be:
1. Less sarcastic.
2. Less cynical.
3. better in my sentance structure.
Yeah, like all that's gonna happen.
1. Less sarcastic.
2. Less cynical.
3. better in my sentance structure.
Yeah, like all that's gonna happen.
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