A Dark Short Story...
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Quick Break
At 10am the sun was already blazing high in the cloudless sky of Cabarete. The past nine days spent there had browned my skin pleasantly, freckled my nose prettily and warmed my hair to honey-colour. I was happiest in hot climates. Slipping his hand into mine, my small fingers recognised Jeremy’s weathered palms. It was time to go. Putting on my gritty flip-flops we left the cool air-conditioned room to face the day’s heat.
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Sandbanks
If the thought of dwelling on busy Bournemouth beach on a sunny Saturday fills you with dread, Sandbanks beach in Poole offers a welcome alternative. A fifteen minute drive from Bournemouth town centre, Sandbanks is more ‘undiscovered paradise’ than ‘overcrowded Costa del-Dorset.’ As soon as you arrive, the atmosphere here is noticeably different to that at Bournemouth, and it becomes clear why a wealthier, more mature audience chooses Sandbanks as their weekend playground.
The blue flag-winning beach itself stretches noticeably wider than the sands at Bournemouth, creating a greater sense of space and tranquillity. In the height of summer FC Watersports Academy provides beach and sea entertainment in the form of kayak and pedalo hire, beach volleyball, banana boat rides, rib boat rides and wakeboarding tuition to boot! Yet despite the wide choice of activities in and around the water, those seeking a day of undisturbed sun-basking will not be disappointed either. Head a few metres down the beach and the hustle and bustle seems a million miles away. But a word of warning, on a windier days the beach has been known to kick up a mean sandstorm! Swimming into the flat expanse of sea that stems from the famous beach is very safe and guarded by lifeguards over the summer months.
Numerous beach-front food outlets and shops selling beach essentials such as sunscreen, buckets and spades, and children’s swimwear will relieve the more forgetful beach goer! Modern and stylish beach huts set further back from the beach may catch your eye, but unless you’ve got the odd ten thousand pounds a year to spare, a windshield and towel will have to make do! The cosmopolitan Jazz Café offers patrons indoor or outdoor seating, with evening music entertainment for those wishing to extend their stay.
Had enough of sand? Starting to resemble a blushing lobster? To escape the beach, simply cross the road and you are at Poole harbour, a marina-cum-watersports-haven. Beach babes and surfer dudes will appreciate FC Watersports’ shop, situated on the harbour side of the Quay. Downstairs, hardcore board and wind-riders can lust over the latest Cabrinha, O’Neil, JP, and Switchblade gear, whilst upstairs clothing by Animal, Roxy, Quiksilver and Reef is available for men and women. Next door, both Le Café, a friendly family-run bar and Café Shore, a bigger, stylish bar/restaurant offer tempting seafood and very reasonably priced beverages. Cosmopolitan-types will love the array of exotic cocktails offered in Café Shore.
All that sun, sea, sand, shopping and schmoozing can be exhausting. Take a break from it all and escape, by visiting Compton Acres. The famous gardens are just three quarters of a mile from Poole Harbour and offer fabulous views of the sea and Studland peninsular. Still not satisfied? Loch Fyne restaurant will tempt seafood-lovers whilst Canford Cliffs village provides even more choice of bars and restaurants.
Sandbanks offers an award winning beach, stylish bars, one of the best places for windsports in the country and impressive modern architecture. For a closer peek into the lives and homes of some of Sandbanks’ most exclusive residents, as well as catching a glimpse of the beautiful Brownsea Island, take a boat trip from Bournemouth Pier.
The blue flag-winning beach itself stretches noticeably wider than the sands at Bournemouth, creating a greater sense of space and tranquillity. In the height of summer FC Watersports Academy provides beach and sea entertainment in the form of kayak and pedalo hire, beach volleyball, banana boat rides, rib boat rides and wakeboarding tuition to boot! Yet despite the wide choice of activities in and around the water, those seeking a day of undisturbed sun-basking will not be disappointed either. Head a few metres down the beach and the hustle and bustle seems a million miles away. But a word of warning, on a windier days the beach has been known to kick up a mean sandstorm! Swimming into the flat expanse of sea that stems from the famous beach is very safe and guarded by lifeguards over the summer months.
Numerous beach-front food outlets and shops selling beach essentials such as sunscreen, buckets and spades, and children’s swimwear will relieve the more forgetful beach goer! Modern and stylish beach huts set further back from the beach may catch your eye, but unless you’ve got the odd ten thousand pounds a year to spare, a windshield and towel will have to make do! The cosmopolitan Jazz Café offers patrons indoor or outdoor seating, with evening music entertainment for those wishing to extend their stay.
Had enough of sand? Starting to resemble a blushing lobster? To escape the beach, simply cross the road and you are at Poole harbour, a marina-cum-watersports-haven. Beach babes and surfer dudes will appreciate FC Watersports’ shop, situated on the harbour side of the Quay. Downstairs, hardcore board and wind-riders can lust over the latest Cabrinha, O’Neil, JP, and Switchblade gear, whilst upstairs clothing by Animal, Roxy, Quiksilver and Reef is available for men and women. Next door, both Le Café, a friendly family-run bar and Café Shore, a bigger, stylish bar/restaurant offer tempting seafood and very reasonably priced beverages. Cosmopolitan-types will love the array of exotic cocktails offered in Café Shore.
All that sun, sea, sand, shopping and schmoozing can be exhausting. Take a break from it all and escape, by visiting Compton Acres. The famous gardens are just three quarters of a mile from Poole Harbour and offer fabulous views of the sea and Studland peninsular. Still not satisfied? Loch Fyne restaurant will tempt seafood-lovers whilst Canford Cliffs village provides even more choice of bars and restaurants.
Sandbanks offers an award winning beach, stylish bars, one of the best places for windsports in the country and impressive modern architecture. For a closer peek into the lives and homes of some of Sandbanks’ most exclusive residents, as well as catching a glimpse of the beautiful Brownsea Island, take a boat trip from Bournemouth Pier.
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Facebook… we need to talk.
“It’s been a while now. Six months in fact. I don’t know how to say this… but... It’s over.”
That’s right. It’s come to this. I, a grown woman of 21, have, after six long months come to the realisation that I am… well, quite frankly bored. That’s right you heard me! Bored… of Facebook.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to do anything drastic, like say, shut down my account. HELL NO! Where would I post my photo’s, waste hour upon hour ‘browsing’ (ok, let’s face it, stalking) the random people who seem to have appeared on my ‘friends’ list (‘did I ever even speak to you at school?’) or while away the days reading other people’s profiles – “I really love socialising, and going out and getting drunk and getting pissed and yeah…” Yawn. Let’s be honest, who doesn’t like a good night out on the town? Talk about stating the obvious. The next thing you know there’ll be an option specifying your species. “Gender: Female. Religious Views: Christian. Species: Human” It’s like reading the CV’s of generation of retarded, alcoholic, illiterates. And ironically, we (I include myself as a self-confessed culprit of the aforementioned crimes against profile-writing) are the future generation of graduates.
Perhaps it’s the twenty(checks)-a-day habit that has driven me to this point. If only quitting smoking was that easy. I can see the campaign now: “Smoke twenty a day and eventually, you’ll quit through boredom.” Or was it the constant addition of hideous (and I mean truly hideous) images of myself on nights out that would best be forgotten, from my so-called friends. The trouble is, I am in no position of power to remove them. I can simply untag them. BUT THEY STILL EXIST IN CYBERSPACE! I am powerless.
Or is it the MySpace-esque façade my once beloved Facebook has donned? First it was the Gifts. Ok, kinda cute. Then came the graffiti wall. Fair enough, I can cope with that. But it was the pointless-as-a-chocolate-teapot addition of hundreds of time wasting applications that really got me fired up: “John has requested you add the waste of my-bloody-time application… Now with added crappy graphics!” Give me strength.
And so I realise that Facebook is going down the pan. Along with my sanity. And yet I will undoubtedly continue to check my page daily, hourly, minutely in some Sado-Masochistic loathing yet satisfying way…
Better just go check my profile…
That’s right. It’s come to this. I, a grown woman of 21, have, after six long months come to the realisation that I am… well, quite frankly bored. That’s right you heard me! Bored… of Facebook.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to do anything drastic, like say, shut down my account. HELL NO! Where would I post my photo’s, waste hour upon hour ‘browsing’ (ok, let’s face it, stalking) the random people who seem to have appeared on my ‘friends’ list (‘did I ever even speak to you at school?’) or while away the days reading other people’s profiles – “I really love socialising, and going out and getting drunk and getting pissed and yeah…” Yawn. Let’s be honest, who doesn’t like a good night out on the town? Talk about stating the obvious. The next thing you know there’ll be an option specifying your species. “Gender: Female. Religious Views: Christian. Species: Human” It’s like reading the CV’s of generation of retarded, alcoholic, illiterates. And ironically, we (I include myself as a self-confessed culprit of the aforementioned crimes against profile-writing) are the future generation of graduates.
Perhaps it’s the twenty(checks)-a-day habit that has driven me to this point. If only quitting smoking was that easy. I can see the campaign now: “Smoke twenty a day and eventually, you’ll quit through boredom.” Or was it the constant addition of hideous (and I mean truly hideous) images of myself on nights out that would best be forgotten, from my so-called friends. The trouble is, I am in no position of power to remove them. I can simply untag them. BUT THEY STILL EXIST IN CYBERSPACE! I am powerless.
Or is it the MySpace-esque façade my once beloved Facebook has donned? First it was the Gifts. Ok, kinda cute. Then came the graffiti wall. Fair enough, I can cope with that. But it was the pointless-as-a-chocolate-teapot addition of hundreds of time wasting applications that really got me fired up: “John has requested you add the waste of my-bloody-time application… Now with added crappy graphics!” Give me strength.
And so I realise that Facebook is going down the pan. Along with my sanity. And yet I will undoubtedly continue to check my page daily, hourly, minutely in some Sado-Masochistic loathing yet satisfying way…
Better just go check my profile…
The Chines State Circus - A Review
Think you’ve had a hard day? Try forcing your entire body weight, via your neck, against two spearheads, and then have a friend smash a concrete slab against your back with a mallet. Doesn’t sound pleasant does it? But it’s all in a days work for the Wu-Shu Shaolin warriors at the Chinese State Circus.
The spectacular Chinese Circus performance began with the introduction of our MC for the evening. The Monkey King, as he called himself, reminded me of a colourful mime artist, dancing in time with the atmospheric drum beat whilst the excited crowd anticipated the first act. We were not to be disappointed. A flurry of acrobats tumbled, rolled and flipped their way into the ring, setting the standard for the rest of the show. Balancing fifteen foot high wooden poles decorated as Chinese lanterns, the performers moved effortlessly from standing to rolling and balancing positions. They even leapt their way onto one another’s shoulders as casually as a cat leaping to the top of a high wall. As the acrobats continued to effortlessly twirl and toss these giant ornaments like batons, the crowd began to excitedly anticipate the next act. But before we knew it the same acrobats had disappeared backstage, only to reappear in new costumes displaying the equally impressive gravity defying hoop diving act.
As the neon – orange coloured flash of robes appeared onto the stage, a sense of nervousness took over me. Having seen such martial arts acts before on television, I knew that these guys did not do things by half. Leaping and flying across the ring, the Wu-Shu Shaolin warriors displayed amazing sword fighting and body movements of great skill and precision. The level of the physical and mental endurance tolerated by the warriors was displayed by their most extreme acts. And I don’t mean the smashing of bricks over the head. Nor the karate chopping of solid wood by bare hands. But the sandwiching of two warriors between six sword blades and a bed of nails, only to be followed by the smashing of concrete over the bodies of what seemed to resemble a torture demonstration. The philosophy of the highly trained warriors relies on their refusal to accept any physical pain, achieved through deep meditation. They believe that the inner spirit controls the body and level of pain tolerated.
However the show was not just about displays of amazing physical ability, but beautiful visuals too. The golden fingered Bodhisattva dancers were resonant of ancient oriental traditional dancers, whilst beautiful geisha-like women performed mysterious scenes from Peking opera. Even the high wire acrobats gracefully held ornamental Chinese parasols throughout their performance. The bright gold and red Chinese dragons, a symbol of good fortune, danced playfully on and off stage between acts and performed their own delightful piece demonstrating grace and balance whilst rolling along on giant balls, much to the audience’s joy.
As if all of this wasn’t enough, the show’s line up also boasted Jar Juggling, The Happy Cooks – China’s very own talented clowns, a Yin and Yang slack wire balancing act, the double pole climbers, a beautiful contortionist named The Human Candelabra and the spellbinding mystery of A Hundred Faces.
The sheer physical strength of the acrobats, the supreme mental stamina of the Shaolin warriors, the grace and majesty of the more ornate and traditional Chinese acts and the overall attention to detail made the two hour performance fly by in a breathtaking flash.
The spectacular Chinese Circus performance began with the introduction of our MC for the evening. The Monkey King, as he called himself, reminded me of a colourful mime artist, dancing in time with the atmospheric drum beat whilst the excited crowd anticipated the first act. We were not to be disappointed. A flurry of acrobats tumbled, rolled and flipped their way into the ring, setting the standard for the rest of the show. Balancing fifteen foot high wooden poles decorated as Chinese lanterns, the performers moved effortlessly from standing to rolling and balancing positions. They even leapt their way onto one another’s shoulders as casually as a cat leaping to the top of a high wall. As the acrobats continued to effortlessly twirl and toss these giant ornaments like batons, the crowd began to excitedly anticipate the next act. But before we knew it the same acrobats had disappeared backstage, only to reappear in new costumes displaying the equally impressive gravity defying hoop diving act.
As the neon – orange coloured flash of robes appeared onto the stage, a sense of nervousness took over me. Having seen such martial arts acts before on television, I knew that these guys did not do things by half. Leaping and flying across the ring, the Wu-Shu Shaolin warriors displayed amazing sword fighting and body movements of great skill and precision. The level of the physical and mental endurance tolerated by the warriors was displayed by their most extreme acts. And I don’t mean the smashing of bricks over the head. Nor the karate chopping of solid wood by bare hands. But the sandwiching of two warriors between six sword blades and a bed of nails, only to be followed by the smashing of concrete over the bodies of what seemed to resemble a torture demonstration. The philosophy of the highly trained warriors relies on their refusal to accept any physical pain, achieved through deep meditation. They believe that the inner spirit controls the body and level of pain tolerated.
However the show was not just about displays of amazing physical ability, but beautiful visuals too. The golden fingered Bodhisattva dancers were resonant of ancient oriental traditional dancers, whilst beautiful geisha-like women performed mysterious scenes from Peking opera. Even the high wire acrobats gracefully held ornamental Chinese parasols throughout their performance. The bright gold and red Chinese dragons, a symbol of good fortune, danced playfully on and off stage between acts and performed their own delightful piece demonstrating grace and balance whilst rolling along on giant balls, much to the audience’s joy.
As if all of this wasn’t enough, the show’s line up also boasted Jar Juggling, The Happy Cooks – China’s very own talented clowns, a Yin and Yang slack wire balancing act, the double pole climbers, a beautiful contortionist named The Human Candelabra and the spellbinding mystery of A Hundred Faces.
The sheer physical strength of the acrobats, the supreme mental stamina of the Shaolin warriors, the grace and majesty of the more ornate and traditional Chinese acts and the overall attention to detail made the two hour performance fly by in a breathtaking flash.
Memoirs of a Zorbonaut
A Review
Step one: take a giant PVC hamster ball. Step two: suspend said hamster ball by thousands of multicoloured nylon strands within a larger PVC hamster ball. Step three: get in the hamster ball. Step four: find a hill… and you’ve got zorbing.
The peaceful Dorchester countryside seems like an unlikely place to indulge in some extreme adrenaline sports. But beyond the hills, through the fields and down the dirt tracks, smack, bang in the middle of nowhere, lies Zorb South. Originating in New Zealand, Zorbing is still a fairly undiscovered adventure activity in the UK, but slowly but surely it’s beginning to develop an underground fan base. And with numerous different Zorb riding options it’s not hard to see why the bizarre activity is becoming so popular.
My first Zorbing experience, in June 2007, came in the form of a dual-harness Zorb ride. In English, that means my boyfriend and I were strapped into the Zorb by harnesses, facing each other. For the more adventurous ‘Zorbonaut’ came the option of Hydro-Zorbing – yes that means hydro as in water. As in, a giant hamster ball, travelling at speed, down a hill, without a harness, with a bucket of cold water chucked in for good measure!
Hardcore thrill-seekers shouldn’t be put off or mislead by the sound of the dual-harness Zorb ride though. Firstly, getting to share the ride with a friend or loved one really made the experience special, and secondly as the guide warned us (just as we’d been strapped in, might I add,) “The dual-harness ride is actually much bumpier than being free within the sphere.” So there we were, suspended quite awkwardly in the humid bubble, at the top of the 200 meter runway. Luckily for me, or perhaps not, in hindsight, I was not facing forward. As the ball was pushed from the launch pad, and momentum began to mount the ride was like nothing I could have imagined. The guide was right for a start. A gentle roll, it was not! The overriding sensation that took over me was a serious case of the giggles, with the odd squawking sound uncontrolably coming out of my mouth with every bump. The way I would describe Zorbing would be: ‘like falling down a staircase made of clouds, in a balloon, in slow-motion.’
In total the run in the Zorb only lasted about 30-40 seconds, which may seem short considering what you pay. But, on the other hand, Zorbing is not something you are likely to try everyday, (unless you live in New Zealand, or are a hamster) so an experience definitely worth a go, even if it is slightly over-priced.
Step one: take a giant PVC hamster ball. Step two: suspend said hamster ball by thousands of multicoloured nylon strands within a larger PVC hamster ball. Step three: get in the hamster ball. Step four: find a hill… and you’ve got zorbing.
The peaceful Dorchester countryside seems like an unlikely place to indulge in some extreme adrenaline sports. But beyond the hills, through the fields and down the dirt tracks, smack, bang in the middle of nowhere, lies Zorb South. Originating in New Zealand, Zorbing is still a fairly undiscovered adventure activity in the UK, but slowly but surely it’s beginning to develop an underground fan base. And with numerous different Zorb riding options it’s not hard to see why the bizarre activity is becoming so popular.
My first Zorbing experience, in June 2007, came in the form of a dual-harness Zorb ride. In English, that means my boyfriend and I were strapped into the Zorb by harnesses, facing each other. For the more adventurous ‘Zorbonaut’ came the option of Hydro-Zorbing – yes that means hydro as in water. As in, a giant hamster ball, travelling at speed, down a hill, without a harness, with a bucket of cold water chucked in for good measure!
Hardcore thrill-seekers shouldn’t be put off or mislead by the sound of the dual-harness Zorb ride though. Firstly, getting to share the ride with a friend or loved one really made the experience special, and secondly as the guide warned us (just as we’d been strapped in, might I add,) “The dual-harness ride is actually much bumpier than being free within the sphere.” So there we were, suspended quite awkwardly in the humid bubble, at the top of the 200 meter runway. Luckily for me, or perhaps not, in hindsight, I was not facing forward. As the ball was pushed from the launch pad, and momentum began to mount the ride was like nothing I could have imagined. The guide was right for a start. A gentle roll, it was not! The overriding sensation that took over me was a serious case of the giggles, with the odd squawking sound uncontrolably coming out of my mouth with every bump. The way I would describe Zorbing would be: ‘like falling down a staircase made of clouds, in a balloon, in slow-motion.’
In total the run in the Zorb only lasted about 30-40 seconds, which may seem short considering what you pay. But, on the other hand, Zorbing is not something you are likely to try everyday, (unless you live in New Zealand, or are a hamster) so an experience definitely worth a go, even if it is slightly over-priced.
Ode To Blogspot
Good Intentions
I have such good intentions, of writing on this site,
Yet when the time comes to it, it always seems I might
As well just leave them to it,
The ones who get it right.
Why do I always suffer,
From wretched writers block?
And every time I try it
I stick between a rock,
(and a hard place for that matter)
I have such good intentions, of writing on this site,
Yet when the time comes to it, it always seems I might
As well just leave them to it,
The ones who get it right.
Why do I always suffer,
From wretched writers block?
And every time I try it
I stick between a rock,
(and a hard place for that matter)
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