The Tropical Isles Part 2: The occupied territories

So last blog I finished somewhat prematurely, mainly because it was about 4am, and the Milan sun was already threatening to rise and make sleeping impossible, plus the blog was already running into enough words to fill a small novel, meaning I was going to lose the attention of the youtube generation. While I did spend a lot of time in England during my time in the tropical isles, I also visited a few of the other countries in the region, and I feel like their stories were worth telling, because once again I was surrounded by great people, lots of alcohol, and once again diabolically terrible weather.

I traveled from Liverpool to Dublin, briefly passing through Wales via train, thus fulfilling my obligation to visit Wales. I passed through a town who's name was spelt with about 90 constanants, 6 vowels, and a few missing chromosomes, there were sheep, and I think I saw a fight. In my experience that counts as a visit to Wales. If I seem a tad harsh on poor little Wales, you have to understand that I spent my first Xmas away from Australia in Cardiff with my mate Jarrod. We ended up having a Xmas dinner of 4 pints of lager, a bottle of Cointreau, and one piece of meat which when cooked shrunk from the size of a large turkey to a starved spatchcock. We also had planned to have baked potatoes, but unfortunately Jarrod had underestimated how long ago he'd bought them and they had grown small trees in their sides. The moment where we hit rock bottom was when we decided to switch from watching Family Guy to checking out the news, just in time to see all the smug bastards in Australia on the beach in Santa hats. It's a testament to how good a friend Jarrod is that I still remember that Xmas fondly, but it's safe to say Wales has not been reserved a place in my heart.

Sigh....Yes Wales you used all the letters. Well done.

Dublin was a great experience, and was once again proof of the stoic ability to make good of a bad situation that people in this part of the world possess. I stayed with my good friend from high school Anita, who is now living in Ireland with her very cool Irish boyfriend Colm. I had planned my trip to Ireland to coincide with their first Euro Championship football game in about 200 years (I got the feeling from the locals it was about that long). The atmosphere before the game was insane, the pubs were packed, and the optimism extremely high. Sure they were in a group with Italy, Spain, and Croatia, three of the best teams in the comp, sure they had a squad made up of players closer to 40 than 30, and a coach who can remember the first world war. But dammit, this was their time. Sadly, this illusion was shattered 3 minutes into the game, when Croatia scored their first of three. There was a pause in the jubilant atmosphere that in hindsight I realise was exactly the time it took to down a Guinness, and then the bastards went right back to their boisterous selves. The result at the end of the night wasn't exactly great, but the night still ended up being great fun. I met up after the game with my work mate Simon who was in town for a 'wedding' (conveniently timed so he was in town for all the euro games), met a few locals, and had many many Guinnesses (is the plural Guineas?). Even the moment where I jokingly said to Simon that Gaelic football players were soft and the entire bar fell silent didn't put a dampener on the night. Sure I had to explain myself a few times, but the Irish people were very nice to me after I conceded that Hurling players are surely the gladiators of our day.

The rest of my time in Dublin was spent just wandering around town, trying to figure out what the hell the locals were saying, and mostly hanging out with Colm and Anita. I have to write a special thanks to those two, as with just one days warning they ended up putting me up while I was in Dublin (and one night when I screwed up my buses from the west coast of Ireland to Northern Ireland and would've otherwise been stuck in the rain or at a bus station). Colm had only met me for one day a few years before back in Australia before I invaded his house, and yet he was waiting with a beer opened for me the moment I arrived, let me join his mates for a game of football, and didn't punch me when he had to let me in the front door after I came back to his house in the middle of the night/morning. As for Anita, I always knew she was an amazing, kind, beautiful person from going to high school with her, but she completely out did herself during my visit. I think the moment that captures how sweet she is, was when I was coming back from playing football with Colm the last night I was in Dublin. We stopped off on the way home at a convenience store and Colm said he had to grab something for Anita. He wandered around confused for a moment, and I asked him if I could help. He then told me he had been ordered to get me something sweet to put in my backpack for the bus trip the next day. Mother Theresa, take a knee. Anita's got this one.

Dublin was good for me in a lot of ways, but definitely not my liver. I've always heard that Guinness was different in Ireland, and I now realise why. They put crack in it over her, because that stuff is seriously addictive. So I decided that I should head to somewhere quiet, and get a bit of nature, some R and R, and some healthy living for a few days. I thought the best place for this was Galway, a small historical town on the west coast. I was wrong.

It took me literally 12 minutes from the time I checked into my hostel to the time I had my first beer on a pub crawl. Turns out Galway is somewhat of a party town. As an Australian it's quite funny seeing how Europeans treat historic buildings. The general rule I've noticed so far is anything built by the Romans = untouchable ruins, which people come and look at and imagine what buildings looked like. Anything which has a cobbled street surrounded by buildings which are all about 4 times older than the white version of Australia = party town. This in some ways makes sense. For one, most of the old buildings were pubs, because back in the day all there was to do in Europe was drink, and occasionally hang someone. So really you're just maintaining the history (though no hangings sadly). Secondly, most of these streets have gutters in the middle as they would have previously had to wash away the toilet waste which was then flung onto the street. This makes it ideal for washing away Australian backpacker vomit which inevitably flows after the tourists get a bit too much 'culture'. Thirdly, it means that the girls in outrageous high heels have to walk along cobblestones when they're drunk, which is hilarious. Anyway, Galway fits this trend perfectly, as its' beautiful old downtown is filled with pubs, kebab stores, and souvenir stores. My time in Galway was spent pubcrawling, watching Euro football with crazy travelling fans, and one day out getting some fresh air and seeing the sights on the Aran Isles.

The pub crawl was a pub crawl. With the exception of meeting a few Aussie girls who reminded me why I fled to Europe (not a slight against all Aussie girls there, just those ones, you know the ones), and the crippling hangover the next day it was a good night, with lots of Guinness drinking challenges, some spazzy dancing, and some dubious free shots. The night out watching the euro games was also a great (albeit unintentionally big) night. It was Germany v Netherlands, and as a massive dutch fan I was pretty keen to support them, and managed to find a few crazy Dutchies kitted out in Orange, and Netherlands flag face paint.The only problem was we weren't in the Netherlands, meaning that due to the fact that German tourists are EVERYWHERE, this was always going to be a bar dominated by ze Germans. Unfortunately, the dutch sucked, and lost badly. Fortunately, I made friends with the Germans after one of them inadvertently poured his beer over me after their first goal. This meant I got bought free beers all night, and once again went past my self imposed curfew.

Say what you will about the Dutch, they come prepared for patriotism.

The day on the Aran Islands followed my back to back benders, and I'll be honest, I felt a tad rough waking at 7am. But after a two hour bus and ferry ride, a conversation with a classic older American tourist ('My gosh, what a long flight that is, that's so long; Maury, isn't that a long flight this young man took, gosh could you imagine'), and being first person off the boat and renting a bike, I had the island to myself, a bike between my legs and fresh air in my lungs. I also had a massive tail wind behind me, and I cruised down to the far tip of the island in barely an hour. Life was good. Unfortunately life got worse after that. I was too hungover to notice I had such a massive tail wind, and so it came as a bit of a shock when I turned around to find I was riding into a small hurricane. This would've been ok if it weren't for the fact it started raining....heavily. The effect of this was amplified by the fact that I was wearing a very lovely woolen jumper given to me by the ever generous Ms Rosy Goodrick, which unfortunately in the rain shed impossible amount of fibres which ended up all over my hands and thus face as I tried to clear the water from my vision, and which also I later learned bled dye all over my shirt and torso. I slogged back, and even stopped at a couple of ruins and look outs in true backpacker spirit, but the real pain came during the boat and bus trip back (no heating on either). The worst thing was the boat was delayed and I missed my bus to Northern Ireland, meaning I had nowhere to stay (Galway was booked out), and could only get to Dublin that night. I tell this mainly to once again emphasise how much of a hero Anita and Colm are for putting me up once again that night. A hot shower has never felt better! Having said that, the Aran Isles were absolutely beautiful, and I'm definitely glad I suffered through it all, because I'd been getting a bit sick of beautiful European cities at that stage (woe is me) and was definitely hanging out for some nature.

mmm nature.....ergh Guinness burp

Happier times, before the deluge.

From Dublin I ventured north to Belfast where I stayed with another amazing host. This one was a couchsurfing host. I've had some amazing experiences with couchsurfing, but I think this one tops them all. My host was a guy called Phil, who originally hails from Australia, but has lived and travelled pretty much everywhere. Phil lives by himself, with the exception of when his son stays over every so often, in a massive 4 bedroom house, which also has a huge lounge room. Apparently he'd previously hosted 12 people at one time, and he's just the most generous open person I've ever met through the website. While I was there he hosted a couple of American lebian vegitarians with nose rings (classic couchsurfers), a Scottish couple, an American lad who was going to Oxford, and he also was visited a few times by a girl he had hosted when she first moved to Belfast who now lived there. Of the many awesome things I remember from my time in town some of the highlights were

* Getting a backpackers breakfast from the local markets (free samples). The local markets were quite diverse, and there really is nothing quite like a burp which is comprised of 12 types of olive oil, 10 curries, chocolate, muesli, coffee, fish jerky, and a caramel slice.

* Getting a guided tour from Phil of the murals on the side of the buildings in the Catholic and Protestant parts of town, and then seeing the artwork and graffiti along the dividing wall.

Memorial showing the ages of some of the people killed in the conflict. Quite a lot were aged between 4 and 10.

Nyeah I wrote on the wall.

But so did Bill Clinton so it's all good.

It was interesting seeing the change in tone from the Catholic side where the murals had a mourning/hopeful attitude, to the Protestant side of town where the murals were a tad more confrontational. The one that stuck with me the most was the mural that said 'We defend our basic human right... to retaliate after being attacked'. I think Ghandi came up with that one.

Aww Titanic memorial

Aww protestant and catholic kids getting along

Aww terrorist group

* Renting a car and heading to the beautiful north coast and seeing the Giants Causeway and a few other cool natural sights. I was joined by a couple of American girls who were also staying with Phil at the time. It was really fun being behind the wheel again and speeding around the quiet lanes of country Northern Ireland. The most amazing thing was that the weather was perfect. Sunshine, and barely a cloud in the sky. The only hairy moment during the day was when I gave the keys to my friend Emily (definite flower child), while I went and climbed around an old castle. When I got back Emily had made herself a very lovely flowery headband, but unfortunately had lost the keys somewhere in the long grass. Luckily we didn't have to spend a night camped out on the coast as we found them about 5 minutes later, but I decided to hang onto the keys from that moment onwards.

My fellow couchsurfers

Amazing how nice this part of the world looks when it's sunny

Giant shoe/bed

Giant's causeway

Yeh, no the bubbles are great, but where the hell are the keys?

You didn't think I'd go a whole blog without at least one jumping photo did you?

Apart from that it was just awesome hanging out with Phil and the other travelers, drinking wine, making spaghetti for everyone, going out in town, and playing drinking games without the drinking with Phil's son.

Overall Ireland and Northern Ireland were brilliant. The people were great, although you could definitely tell there was some tension and a lot of unemployment due to the recession. One thing I loved is how the Irish express their anger. Twice I heard full blown shouting matches in the middle of the street in downtown Dublin. The first was a local who was screaming at someone I'm guessing was an immigrant to the country saying stuff like 'You come here, take our jobs for half the feckin pay. You'll never be feckin Irish, you'll never be Irish'. I'm guessing that this was just an Irish bogan, and unless the immigrant had pushed in front of him in line at the dole office that he probably hadn't effected him in the slightest. The other one I heard was a massive domestic in the middle of the main street, which ended with the guy screaming at his now storming off girlfriend 'GO FECK YOURSELF............YOU FECKIN BITCH'. The whole street turned and then started laughing. But it was also their graffiti that I quite liked. From the intense but quite poetic...

To the hilarious...

After this I headed to Scotland. I had originally planned to travel to Scotland a few days earlier so I could trek up to the highlands and try and find Nessie. Unfortunately the weather up there was so abysmal that I ended up staying a few extra days in Belfast and arrived a little earlier in Edinburgh. Edinburgh was a really beautiful city, although sadly the Scottish brogue was so soft down here I could understand everyone perfectly, which was a tad disappointing. My bus ride across from the west coast of Scotland was actually quite a highlight as well. Again the sun had peaked through the clouds and the green of the countryside just popped into life with the unexpected rays. It definitely has made me want to return one day and explore the north a bit more.

I couchsurfed with a lovely Irish girl, Sinead. She was a really smart and funny girl, and she had some jokes that even most dads would roll their eyes at. But my favourite moment of my stay with Sinead was when we were out at her local with a few of her friends and she was talking with some English guy. The English lad was a tad dim, but fancied himself a bit of a wit, and wasn't quite understanding that Sinead was joking about a few things that he was taking serious. Unfortunately for the poor English lad he made some comment regarding Irish people not understanding when they've been beaten, a thinly veiled reference to the English occupation of Ireland. Here's a hint for English people thinking of conversing with Irish people. Irish people are very friendly people, and don't particularly hold any grudges over English people that would prevent them from being friends. Unfortunately they (understandably) still have some beefs regarding the whole English occupation thing, and so Sinead's reaction was priceless.
''You are a feckin Coont'' she said, and stormed out. This, mind you, was my first night staying with her, and so I hastily said my goodbyes to my new friends and ran after her. The walk home was hilarious as Sinead alternated between apologising for getting angry and storming out, rationalising that maybe he wasn't actually referring to what she thought, and then getting angry again and saying things like ''No, feck him, he is a coont''. This process was repeated about 20 times but I think we settled on him being a prick, and that Sinead acted awesomely.

But I don't want to paint her as some sort of crazy lady. I mean she was a little crazy, but in a sweet funny way. It'd be like judging a mother after you tried to abduct her children. Sinead also took me on an amazing culinary tour of Edinburgh. I ate fried pizza (yep, just cheese pizza, battered and fried), Scotch eggs, and my favourite, Haggis. Haggis was absolutely delicious, and Sinead paired it with Broccoli and Tatties (mashed potatoes), and I think my body, clearly craving vegetable matter after the fried pizza incident, was very thankful for a normal meal. We also invented environmentally friendly shot glasses, shooting rum out of raspberries.

I also ventured to the top of the mountain that overlooks the town, saw the castle, and generally wandered the streets. Sinead and I also went on a pretty ordinary ghost tour through the underground vaults where the poor people used to live back in ye olde days. It was a shame because the actual places we toured were really cool, but the stories and unfortunately the tour guide kinda sucked. There's a business opportunity there somewhere I'm sure. Edinburgh is definitely a beautiful city, and it'd be great to go there again one day for the Fringe festival, or just for the hell of it really.

It was so windy during this photo, the guy taking it almost fell over.

Seriously pretty city, gives Stockholm a real run for it's money.

Castle peeking through the deluge.

So that was my UK and Ireland trip. From Edinburgh I headed down south to meet Miss Goodrick and her lovely family, but you know all about that, so I won't bore you again. Next stories will be from San Fermin!!! It'll be a big one. Till next time.....

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Human Cloning Beckons : American Scientist creates the First set of Genetic modified babies 

 Genetic modified babies are also known as "designer babies".They are designer babies indeed because their genetic make up has been artificially selected through a combination of both genetic engineering and in-vitro fertilization, to ensure the presence or absence of particular genes and characteristics. The technical capacity to carry out this have been available since 1980, but it has never been carried out until recently when controversial American Embryologist, Jacques Cohen took the entire world of science by suprise,He recently lead a team of scientist that created 30 healthy babies after a series of experiments in the United states. So far, two of the babies have been tested and have been found to contain genes from three 'parents'. Fifteen of the children were born in the past three years as a result of one experimental programme at the Institute for Reproductive Medicine and Science of St Barnabas in New Jersey. The babies were born to women who had problems conceiving. Extra genes from a female donor were inserted into their eggs before they were fertilised in an attempt to enable them to conceive. Genetic fingerprint tests on two one-year- old children confirm that they have inherited DNA from three adults --two women and one man. The fact that the children have inherited the extra genes and incorporated them into their 'germline' means that they will, in turn, be able to pass them on to their own offspring.controversy.Genetic modification has been a subject of furious controversies over the past decades.Libertarians, liberal technophiles and transhumanist believes that it is imperative to improve the society by improving the health, Intelligence and physical capabilities of individuals.Opponents of the experiment oppose experimenting with human embryo because of the risk of abortion which is an inevitable consequence of such experiments, some opponents also believe it could lead to the creation of Super Humans that would look down on other humans without genetic enhancement.Those were the various contrasting school of thoughts. What is however important to us now is that "the world has now welcomed the latest form of humans and they were rolled out from the baby factory of Professor Jacques Cohen". Science enthusiast must also be aware that this great feat may as well usher us to the most incredible broadway of biological sciences, which is the creation of human clones. This was hinted by Jacques, when he said last year that his expertise will allow him clone children. " It will be an afternoon work for one of my students, he said. Adding that he had been approached by 3 individuals wishing to clone children but turned down their requests". .....It might just be a matter of time before we have super humans descending on our planet earth! !! courtesy of far reaching scientific exploits.

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Tropical England

OK, it's been a while since I last updated this blog, and at first it took me a while to figure out why. The weather has been atrocious, and while I have definitely been getting out and pushing through the elements to see the sights, I've spent a huge chunk of my time indoors. But when I really think about it, I've actually had very little down time whilst I've been here, and it's all been due to the awesome people I've staying with.

I have a theory that culture and banter are inversely proportionate to the climate of a city. The most diabolically rainy and cold places always seem to produce art, music, and humour far superior to their more climatiously blessed counterparts. I think it has to do with neccesity. Imagine how much melbourne would suck if it had no arts scene, and a bunch of chain restaurants. I think the cold, the rain, and the lack of naturally occuring beauty drives a city to produce it's own reasons for getting out of bed in the morning. Inversely the more beautiful places tend to ignore the unneccesary things like art, culture, and basic intelligence in some cases, because, screw it....they've got a beach and they better work on their tans. Queensland for example. (This theory must be used in conjunction with my theory applying to the proximity of a city to the ocean which inversely effects the level of sanity. This helps explain my home town Bowral).

Anyway, this theory applies perfectly to the UK and Ireland. Let's not beat around the bush. The weather while I was there was diabolically terrible. I really wanted to avoid being 'that' Aussie traveller going around complaining that 'Christ, this is summer? This is bloody winter in Oz', but it really was a struggle. I caught an overnight bus from lovely sunny Paris, and the moment I got off the ferry it began raining, and pretty much didn't stop the whole time I was there. But luckily this didn't drag the mood down at all because the people here are so stoically good humoured, despite everything mother nature throws at them, that it was rarely an issue.

I started off in London where I was staying with the lovely Rosy Goodrick. I first met Rosy about ten years ago when she visited Bowral along with about 50 other british backpackers. To be honest she didn't make much of an impresion then because 
A) she was only in town for a few days
B) seriously there were so many brits they all blended into one drunk whinging blob
C) she spent most of her time snogging one of my mates 

However, I caught up with her again when she was maid of honour at a wedding where I was best man. We bonded at the wedding while stressing over how underprepared we were for the maid of honour and best man's speeches we were about to give. This bond was shattered when she got up and gave the most ridiculously polished speech that thoroughly wooed the crowd, and made the groom and myself thoroughly despise her as we had to follow her. However, this act of smugness is probably the only blemish I could find on an otherwise amazingly pure and beautiful person. Rosy was the most amazing host, and we had an awesome time terrorising London together. 

What a host!

I could write forever about my time in London, but here were some highlights:

* Adorably, Rosy is a massive royalist. Personally I'm not exactly a fan, but Rosy's enthusiasm was infectious, and I ended up attending the diamond jubilee. Well, when I say attending, it was more walking around in the rain being rejected from going near the Thames by the fuzz. 

This was as close as I got to Lizzie...

Apart from this.

But I think the most fun part of the jubilee was seeing how nuts people can still get over an unelected person who is essentially the biggest dole bludger of all time. From the people who camped out in the rain, to the embarassingly gushing Rolf Harris (how is he still a thing?), the whole thing was hilarious.

Not pictured, union jack pyjamas.

How can you be more patriotic than the union jack? Answer, union jack with the Queen's head exploding through the centre.

Nailed it.

* I got to go to my second tennis Mecca-Wimbledon. I spent one afternoon and the whole of the next day there. There's alot to love about Wimbledon. It reminded me a lot of when I went to the Masters golf tournament in Augusta, except without the exclusivity and the sexist/racist history. The whole affair is just so damn polite. Unless you are one of the lucky elite to have secured a ticket beforehand, the only way to see Wimbledon is to queue for tickets. This involves what has to be the most professional queue in the world. You arrive, and receive a number and booklet explaining what is involved in queuing. This has many rules and is all very thoroughly explained over the course of about 12 pages. 

This may all sound stuffy, but it actually isn't. The queue is a very social and relaxed affair, mainly because no one has to worry about douche bags pushing in, or having that middle aged lady stand 1cm behind you breathing down your neck because that will make her that little bit closer to the front of the line. The event itself is also very relaxed and fun. Look past the wearing of white, and the bowing to the royal box and you see that Wimbledon allows spectators to bring in one bottle of wine, or two pints of beer for you to enjoy during the day. Underneath the very posh and polite exterior Wimbledon manages to be amazingly egalitarian and quite unrestrictive so long as you manage to act decent. 

Actual match highlights involved Rosy and I seeing a couple of younger Aussie men lose horribly, Karlovic play on a surface which he actually enjoys, Tommy Haas and Kohlschreiber play the same match they've been playing against each other since about 1982 in a brilliant 5 setter, and a major highlight for Rosy: seeing her apparent future baby daddy Grigor Dimitrov play against Kevin Anderson. 

It was also great seeing the rain come down and watching one of the ground crew get dragged under the court tarp, then watching the same crew member slip on the tarp and have the crowd start chanting "You're getting fired in the mooooorning, you're getting fired in the moooooorning".

Good place for a picnic

The fanatics struggling to find anything to cheer about.

It's not the full experience without a rain delay.

Rosy stalking Dimitrov

 * Rosy and I rode Boris bikes around the city, and I freaked Rosy out by making her ride around the roads in the centre of the city.

 * We went to the site of the 2012 olympics. It looks quite cool, but amazingly there's still an abandoned building literally one block away from the main site. I'm not sure what they're going to do with it in the month remaining, but I have a bad feeling somewhere in east London there's a few squatters buried in shallow graves.

"My dad wants to know where your turban is"

* I went to Brick lane to have an curry (that's the correct grammar for it 'round these parts). Apparently the place was Prince Charles' favourite curry house. Turns out Prince Charles has quite terrible taste, as it wasn't the best, but luckily for me the company was good.

* I lived it up for a night going to a bar with some of Rosy's friends which was on a boat overlooking the houses of parliament. Sadly I also continued my hate hate affair with white wine, and later tried to scale the fence surrounding the parliament (the time before that I literally woke up in a gutter a block away from my home).

* I ate jellied eel, which is as tasty as it sounds. Seriously England, how do you still not get food?

It's cold and it wobbles and it's eel.

* Rosy and I took a couple of days excursion down to Gloucester to see the annual cheese rolling competition. For those unlucky enough to never bear witness to this ancient tradition, this is where people go running down Coopers Hill after a disc of Gloucester cheese. First to the bottom wins the cheese. What makes this event unique is that Coopers Hill is more Coopers cliff, and most of the runners end up going head over tail at full speed in pursuit of the elusive cheese. Photos and video just don't do the hill justice. Rosy straight up refused to climb UP it!

I fully intend to do many crazy and stupid things during my trip, but chasing this cheese this early in the trip was never going to be one of them. Safely from the sidelines I witnessed this marvelous event. The runners line up at the top of the mountain. While I'm no expert on the intricacies of cheese chasing, it seemed to be an advantage to be slightly drunk, and Welsh. The cheese gets thrown and this acts as the starters pistol and the runners take their first step into the abyss. For most runners this is the last time their feet touch the ground before the bottom. The crowd at the bottom of the hill are shepharded away from the quite heavy block of Gloucester as it's going about 70km/h by the end. In the women's race you have time to watch out for the cheese then look back up the mountain to watch the women tumble their way down the mountain, but amazingly in the guys race you glanced up just in time to see the first couple of guys finish. I'm pretty sure the winning guy crossed the finish line upside down.

One of my favourite things about this event is that the local rugby team is at the bottom 'catching the participants to stop their momentum. Funny thing is that the runners are going so fast, the rugby guys have to tackle them full blooded just to stop them. They seemed to enjoy this thoroughly.

But my favourite thing about this event has to be that it is now an "Unofficial" event. The insurance costs were simply too high and the town couldn't afford to put it on anymore. It makes sense though, it's so dangerous, you'd never be able to justify that risk of life for something so silly.... Actually, the reason they can't insure it is because the crowds at the event are too large, and there weren't adequate exit locations, meaning public health and safety wouldn't approve without non slip, accessible exit points being put in place. You've got to love the irrationality of the modern nanny state.

Rosy is genuinely terrified in this photo.

After my first stint in London I headed northward to check out the Manchester and Liverpool. In Manchester I was lucky enough to stay with Stacey, my mate from Uni. Stacey was our soccer teams' midfield enforcer, and most of my memories of her were either her ferociously taking down opposition players, or emotively, passionately and eloquently discussing American politics in the thickest of Manchester accents. So naturally it was a bit of a shock when she turned up in this:

Staying with Stacey and her mum was brilliant, and I reckon I ended up nattering to Stacey for about 90% of the time I was in town. Manchester itself is a cool town, very working class, but a bit of character about it. 


From Manchester I then ventured to Liverpool. I arrived there around 11pm on a rainy Thursday night, expecting to find a quiet town with nothing much going on. Turns out it's always Saturday in Liverpool! I ended up trying to find directions from about 10 different scousers and not understanding a word from any of them, partly because the accent is so strong, but mainly because they were all completely pissed.


I was staying there with a cool local girl who was in the last year of her PhD in tropical diseases (yeh, they have a tropical disease lab in Liverpool, go figure). Liverpool was a cool city, but I enjoyed most of it with the refreshed attitude that only a cyclone force wind and torrential rain can give you. 

One of 4 umbrellas to die that day.

But through the misery I managed to see where the Beatles first cut their teeth, the harbour, about a million terrace houses, and Penny Lane. 

Beatles old haunt

I then proceeded across to Ireland, Nth Ireland and then Scotland, but I'll save that for another blog. Apart from that I also ventured to Oxford to watch smart people in their natural element:

Unfortunately they immediately spotted me as an imposter, I don't know how.

and headed to York to see Rosy, and hear stories about my best mate's wife (If only I'd known before the wedding what I knew now. Sorry Jarrod). I also managed to get sick for the first time while in York, which on one hand was pretty horrible because it's never a good time to be sick, but on the other hand was pretty lucky as I got treated so well by Rosy and her parents that the cold only lasted a couple of days. They made me so well that I was able to record the following for my brother.

Anyway, I think that's as good a place to leave this as any. I will hopefully write about Scotland and the two Irelands soon, and then about my jaunt back into mainland europe, and get caught back up on where I'm at, but that will all depend on internet availability and how much fun I'm having. Love to you all, and till next time.......um.......man , I need a sign off.

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