What's on the Telly?

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Proof positive that blogging can provoke a change of heart, a correction of character. Some posts ago I pointed a metaphorical finger at my parents for the irreparable damage they wrought by forcing the Children's Newspaper on me (and my brother) while my friends' utterly irresponsible parents, with their arms up their backs, succumbed and bought the Dandy, the Beano or indeed, the Topper.

Last Thursday, on checking my pigeon hole at the factory, I found a rolled up package containing a newspaper, the sort of thing for which my mother is famed. If she thinks I would be interested, she rolls it up, slaps a stamp on it and a month or so later, I receive it. Well, I took it to my room and tore it apart. Sure enough, the Guardian Review fell out, of which more later. But, secreted within it was a copy of the Dandy and a copy of the Beano. Not before time. The rancour I have harboured all these years has evaporated and I feel more complete.

The Review contained a fascinating article about the demise of travel writing since the glory days of the 1970s and 80s but for a handful of authors who have taken the mantle of such greats as Wilfred Thesiger, Eric Newby and a favourite of mine, Colin Thubron. The writer of the article, William Dalrymple, himself a renowned practitioner, tells of one of those greats, Norman Lewis, who survives and writes to this day, aged 92. He was recently on a trip to Kos when he read a story in a local paper, about women on the small island of Anirini, who were apparently disposing of their unwanted husbands by throwing them down dry wells. He set off to the island on a boat with three sponge fishermen and a prostitute they had picked up on the quay at Piraeus. Apparently, "they spent the crossing alternately sleeping, eating and making love-the last on a strict rotation". On reaching the island, Lewis hopped ashore and found accommodation with one of the chief suspects, then went off to peer down wells, looking for corpses. At 92.

Cancel that order for carpet slippers.

White Rhino

D'ya like this? It's a little girl, skipping through the savannah of darkest Africa. Now why would I do that? I do acknowledge that the giraffe is misshapen, I did it from memory, which is something I tell my students they should never do. But it is just a practice.

Sophial Oren? Who She?

Mubarakia, Central Kuwait City
Lovely day today. Ran early with 4 others, 6.30 at the Crescent, Persian Gulf lapping benignly on the rocks. Perfect temperature to start, had become warmer as we finished, an hour and 15 minutes later. We did 15km, 2 more than we had intended. I know this because one of the new members of the group told me about mapmyrun.com and I duly went there on getting home and measured the course. Breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien, fruit smoothie, baguette, homous, smoked salmon and grilled halloumi. Home for a delicious doze, then to the café and spent a peaceful hour or so, reading the latest book, Dresden, by Frederick Taylor. Enthralling. Into the city to wander for the first time in ages around Mubarakia. What a beautiful area it is. Relaxed, quiet, ramshackle, almost carless and with a sense of timelessness. It is the very human face of Kuwait, which almost all of the rest lacks. I must spend more time there.

I passed a café on the coast, up in Sharq. I remember clearly that it used to be called Puerto Banus, in honour of that resort in southern Spain, near Marbella. It has, since then, mutated into Porto Ponos. How does that happen?

Near me in Salmiya, one of those street side cafés where men flock to watch football and smoke shisha was originally and oddly romantically called Strada del Amore. That has morphed into Strada Dela More. Who is Dela More? Sounds like a 40s Hollywood starlet.

Chocolate Gateau

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Well that was fun.

Training is progressing and getting easier. The sun still makes mid-afternoon runs difficult, on top of which I am fighting my mind, which tries to convince me to walk a while, when to be honest there is no reason other than that beating insistence of the sun. Morning runs are much better. 12km on Friday morning, starting at 6. Temperature perfect, a slight breeze. And on Saturday, also at 6, in the company of the redhead, 10 km, which felt easy. The target is now, week by week, to increase the long run by 2km per week, which will take me to a run, some time towards the end of December, of over 35 km. This should make 42km a piece of gateau. Chocolate.

I am now running in Nike Frees. I have two pairs, 3 and 5. The numbers indicate the level of support. The 3s offer the least, getting as close as I have been to running barefoot. There is no heel support and extreme flexibility in the sole. Isn't it odd that after all these years of being told we need ever increasing levels of foot control, Nike, the main 'control freak' has done a complete U turn and now recognises that it was precisely all the controls which were perpetuating, indeed promoting high levels of runner injury.

Bizarre, but great marketing.

Keep Yer Knickers On!

Lubna Hussein was convicted in Sudan for wearing trousers, because, according to the authorities, the wearing of trousers by a woman is obscene and is to be punished with 40 lashes.

A week later in the north of England a school banned the wearing of skirts, imposing trousers for girls on grounds of modesty, as skirt hemlines rose amongst school girls.

So both trousers and skirts are indecent. Where do we go from here?

Eyup My Old China!

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Not many people know this, (why am I implicating innocent on-lookers? perhaps I was truly isolated in my ignorance. However I am feeling lonely and need the warmth of numbers), but China, crucible of so much that Europe discovered only centuries later had, in everyday use at the time of Marco Polo, tinted nail varnish, toilet paper and mosquito repellent.

Way ahead.

Men in Tights

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I went to the café earlier. It was daylight; this, the first day of Eid al Fitr, celebrating the end of the rigours of Ramadan. I am told that this holiday equates, if it equates to anything, to the Christian festival of Christmas. And in that context, it is barely surprising that spirits are high.

Ensconced as I was in my favourite chair, my large latte and mobile phone on the table, my book, 'Behind the Wall' in my hand, I was disturbed by the arrival of three dishdasha-clad children, one in a huge Saudi ghutra strewn around his head, out on the town. They communicated with bizarre grunts and hoots, threw themselves around on the sofas, with no concern beyond themselves. There does seem here to be a remarkable tolerance for this sort of behaviour in the young, particularly boys. They departed from one door only to reappear at the other, rowdy as before. They did not buy anything. They came and went several times, for no apparent reason. Four young adults arrived, bursting loudly through the door. Dishdasha-clad again, they occupied seats but bought nothing. They boisterously argued and pushed the table around, stood up, declaiming on all around, no doubt including the Euro with his head in a book. They left. Then a group of Pakistani youths. Same story, loud, inconsiderate, pushing and shoving. They bought drinks but only after a protracted and animated discussion.

I was dressed in a T shirt, I should know better; when it is hot outside it is freezing inside. I asked for the fan to be turned off and it was but moments later another member of staff turned it on. I drained my coffee and went out into the damp street. The now dark sky was lit by the flashes of a hundred firecrackers exploding into the night. They reminded me that yet again I shall miss Bonfire Night and the pleasure in my granddaughter's eyes as England celebrates with fireworks the death of the catholic Guy Fawkes, burned at the stake for attempting to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

All But The Bacchanal

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I just got back from the Sultan Centre and it is sweaty as hell out there. I used to work with a guy called Hywel who had worked in Malaysia and loved humidity. The SC was heaving with starving fasters loading up for Iftar. I can never understand why supermarkets become war zones of eager shoppers during Ramadan. I always believed that fasting implied restraint and abstinence. Certainly not here. Something has been lost in translation; fasting has become feasting.

Given that the queues at the checkout were obscenely long, you could be excused for thinking shoppers would roll their sleeves up and pack the food into bags, speeding the process up, but no. They stand stolid and inert, while the checkout girl prices it and then packs it. Why? Does it never occur to them to do it? Or do they simply believe it beneath them? God forbid they ever go to live in the West, although it has to be said that in Asda, they ask the old and infirm if they would like assistance bagging. (I never understand why they ask me).

When I look back at old photographs of me when I was in my twenties, at college, and when I remember the bizarre fashions I embraced, I shiver. I left the SC behind a massive black American. He was wearing, as he must, a baseball hat. In his defence, it was peak forward. Below that was the most complex electronic equipment attached to his ear, under which was a size XXXL t shirt which descended to his mid thigh and made his upper half square, which no doubt it was. Around his neck hung a gold chain with a large amulet at his navel. His curiously shiny legs protruded to his feet which were Nike-clad. Above the ankle, up his mid-calf was an elaborate tattoo made visible by three quarter length khaki cargo shorts. His wife was just behind him. I wonder what she saw when she looked at him. I saw a clown.

What Was That Bang?

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It's enough to madden a haji, (which, excruciatingly, is an anagram of Ahmadinejad).

Now, forgive me but I find this off the scale. He has again declared the holocaust a myth, a work of fiction. I don't need to point out to you, the rational reader, that there is a vast amount of documentary, film, photographic, anecdotal evidence to prove without a scintilla of question, the horrific truth of its occurrence. Denying it is like refuting Krakatoa's volcanic destruction or that the tides come and go.

The world is full of morons; I see the evidence of it every day, mainly on the Fahaheel expressway. But it is downright terrifying that at the head of any nation there sits a man of such devastating ignorance. This from a man who puts his faith in and lives his life according to a patent myth, for which there is no empirical proof at all: Islam, the product of angels, et al. (This is not an attack on belief in Islam, nor any other religion. George W Bush justified many of his ludicrous decisions from his Christian perspective).

I have just read Colin Thubron's 'Shadow of the Silk Road'. Along the journey he travels through Iran before ending up on the Turkish Mediterranean at the ancient port of Antioch. The over-riding impression he got from his conversations with young and old was how sick they are of the Islamist government and the entrenched clerics who control every aspect of civil life.

And it was with interest that I heard on the BBC yesterday that a group of young Muslims in Morocco had planned a public daylight picnic during the last days of Ramadan to protest against state laws governing matters of religion and personal choice. The police prevented the picnic and one of the organisers has 'disappeared'.

Something Cold and Jagged

We, the blonde and I, drove from Lisbon to Porto, with the express intention of taking a trip up the River Douro. The river scenery is allegedly spectacular and on arrival, upriver, there is a trip around a vineyard. So when we booked in at the Hotel da Bolsa, whose reduced prices reflected the dearth of visitors, we enquired about the cruises. Neglecting to read the small print, I asked the receptionist to make our booking for us. At 50 euros each it seemed a bit steep but given this was the purpose of the trip, I swallowed hard and put it out of my mind. We dined at a quayside restaurant overlooking the iconic Ponte de Dom Luis, the river, and the port wine warehouses of Vila Nova de Gaia, their names proudly lit, Cockburn, Offley, Sandeman, Dow, Kopke and the rest and slept a deep sleep.

In the morning, before heading over the bridge to the quay on the south bank, I went to reception to pay. The small print had concealed the interesting information that at weekends, the price doubled. Something in my throat felt cold and jagged. I comforted myself with the assurance that breakfast and lunch were included.

Given the context that Portugal, more than most EU countries was suffering severe economic hardship even before the 'crash', I was surprised that among the 150 or so passengers, I was the only non-Portuguese. There were some emigrant Portuguese visiting the old country and demonstrating their relative wealth and their terrible American English.

The journey up the river was picturesque rather than stunning; small typical villages, rambling farm houses, surrounded and overgrown by vines clung to the river banks. The best part of the trip, however, was the passage of the boat through two locks alongside dams built to tame the river for the transport of barrels of Port wine down to the placid waters of the estuary. The journey had been highly risky for the heavily laden wooden boats, rabelos, through the rapids. The locks we passed through were immense and each raised the boat by around 20 metres.

The journey up river took around 5 hours and was pleasant. The food was fairly routine, the wine good.

As we moored and prepared to disembark, we were looking forward to seeing a functioning vineyard. Our disappointment was palpable. We boarded a bus and were taken a few hundred metres to what was nothing more than a wine shop. I had the impression that the others felt similarly let down. From there we were taken to the railway station for the uninspiring three hour journey back to Porto.

A fine Douro red and a francesinha took the razor edge off the injury to my wallet.

Pellucid

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Mariza. Portuguese aural honey. Fado, to a foreign ear is sometimes difficult but worth the struggle and once you are in, its passion and sorrow are captivating. Try "Transparente". Songs sung of a love of a country and its past are alien to the English ear; I cannot imagine such beautiful, revealing, sometimes sad words written for England: the thought is ridiculous.

An Adventure on the Expressway

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White beams, keeping station, behind. Two move into the outside lane and rapidly approach. As they do, they (it is an object) threaten with their blinding strike-eyes. The pure white registers, shrieking in the retina of the driver.

The driver has had a good day. He is heading south, touching the limit.

The lights flash staccato; an insistent demand to pass. The unseen driver (the boor) edges closer, to intimidate. He flashes. And flashes.

Unperturbed, our driver maintains his speed. He has nowhere to go. Traffic to the right, barrier to the left. He glances in the mirror and takes his foot off the accelerator. His rear-view fills with incandescent light. He smiles. He very slowly pulls past the car he was overtaking and as the screaming, flashing light-machine rolls past, he flicks his steering wheel to the left, catching its rear bumper.

The boor, suddenly unsure of his sure trajectory, tries to right what he deems wrong but what has started must end, and his vast, overweight, over powered brick (with fancy lights) slides sideways, the slide enhaced by the boor's vain efforts to bring his monster to heel. It slams into the barrier, careers across the three lanes, elegantly gliding like a Rhino in ballet pumps between the innocent, its myriad lights spinning, leaving brilliant lines on the retina, and finds comfort in the culvert to the right, where it somersaults and halts, with abrupt finality where a residue of green moisture had coalesced, its roof crushed.

Our driver pulls off the road some distance away, strolls back and observes the wreckage. There is faint movement from the cab. He returns to his car, pulls into the traffic and merrily flashes his lights, smiling.

Oh, Bollards.

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I was out this morning, early. The redhead had failed to turn up for our run, sending me a curt text as I approached the parking area of the beach-side crescent: "I failed you". She can afford to take it a little easier than I can, she has far more regular miles in her legs. So I ran alone. There was a refreshing hint of coolness in the slight breeze.

Well, I ran stiffly, uncomfortably, in the first strides, gradually loosening as I progressed along the prom. There were others out early, running and walking, fishing, sitting in groups.

As I retraced my steps, having tagged the bollards at Ras Salmiya, back towards the Ramadan-sealed crescent cafés and restaurants, I caught sight of a council worker in blue uniform gingerly stepping across the rocks between the path and the benign sea, picking the rubbish left by the previous night's revellers, paper, polystyrene, plastic and placing it in another plastic carrier bag. He started back to his wheely bin and stopped, looked inside the bag at his collection but, rather than placing it in the bin, he turned, swung it around his head and threw it into the waves.

I was shocked and in my British "outraged of Tunbridge Wells" way prepared to berate him. But as I neared, he turned towards me, smiled and uttered "Assalam alaicum", which took the wind from my sails and I merely returned his greeting.

Magic

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Alberobello is simply one of the most magical towns in Italy, consisting as it does of narrow winding streets on two hillsides laced with those unlikely toy-like houses, topped with squat upturned white coffee filters, trulli. We found a bed and breakfast in a trullo on the outskirts. Our accommodation was one of a number, part of an old farm house numbering around ten trulli and had been renovated and adapted for the itinerant.

We spent some time roaming the narrow, low-rise streets, taking obligatory photographs, a large proportion of which feature the blonde. As the sun set, we found a trulli restaurant high above the town and chose a table on the terrace. A very old car, shining from renovation, held pride of place on the perifery of the tables; it was a gift for an elderly man, from his family, all of whom arrived and celebrated, later. We ate and drank under the stars and as the evening progressed, a carnival procession made its way through the town below, with all the accompanying band music. I cannot proclaim the food to be historic, as so rarely I could in Italy, but its relative mediocrity bore no influence on the pleasure of the evening. The wine, as usual, was very good; that is something it is difficult to get wrong.

We returned through the now quiet streets and country lanes to our B&B, to a place I feel it would be easy to refer to as 'home'.

Piazza Navona? Eat Yer Heart Out!

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I had coffee with my mate Boyce down in Fahaheel this evening. We went to al Kout mall, which, in the context of my general opinion of malls in Kuwait, is rather refreshing, with all its Italianate arcades, expanses of water and dancing fountains which perform in sync (I think) with dramatic music. As the sky darkened and the lights of this rejuvenated back end of Kuwait came on it all felt, well, right.

Oh Really?

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It may well be that one way of achieving something, in circumstances where one might have less than enough resolve to do it alone, is to announce it to the three people who might read this blog. You will probably not check that I have kept my word but I will feel obliged and anyway I will let you know, if you hang around long enough.

So, here it is.

I am going to run the Dubai Marathon on Friday January 22nd.

And that's it.

Big deal.

Manner of Midnight Music? (14)

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I was strolling through Salmiya this evening, rather aimlessly; I had just indulged in a BLT at Johnny Rockets, a rare descent. I was contemplating the redundancy of most of what I saw and how desolate it looked to one who was yearning for stimulation beyond the retail; more and more clothes shops selling clothes which no one really needs and much of which is bought by those who don't even want it, they simply have nothing in their minds better to do than lard on the make-up every night and 'go shopping', buying things which are then placed in drawers and wardrobes and often never again shown the light of day or the neon of night. The beauty of this robot activity is that it requires no effort. Hell, I know that preparing for 'shopping' can be a major stress inducing grind but you know what I mean. I do not wish to expose myself to accusations of sexism; the men are as bad, even with the make-up in some cases. Disconsolately, I turned into the glittering Al Fanar complex to cut through towards home. It is decorated for Ramadan and the approaching Eid al Fitr with large moons, and pagodas, draped with a multitude of tiny pale purple lights and it does look enchanting. Passing through the main concourse, I heard the tinkle of a piano and I was drawn to see who was playing it. One would normally expect to see an elegant European or Oriental woman as in the SAS hotel, but the stool was unoccupied; this was an automated Yamaha grand, playing itself. And I thought, what could better sum up this lost place? "There is no need to learn to play." (It would take so long!), "And no need to employ someone else to play it and the maid will do the polishing." "Perfect!"

Sadly, there is so little NEED to DO ANYTHING around here, (for a particular section of society).

Fish? Why not!

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The blonde was invigorated by the news that around the corner from our honey-coloured B&B was a small family run fish restaurant. Her eyes swivelled. So the evening meal was in her charming but unprepossessing marine gastronomic heaven. I am not so much into fish but so long as it is well cooked and relatively recognisable, I will usually eat it. I will even on occasions go as far as octopus. I conquered squid some years ago.

It started out badly. The blonde's mastery of Portuguese and Spanish usually means that she can handle most situations in Italy but it also means that she rarely admits to being nonplussed. Out came a vaste tray of shiny, grey, blue and pink flesh. She listened, even discussed, the options with the owner/chef, who brought the range of wet fish to our table, lifting gills, opening mouths. He swept away and the blonde smiled broadly. She was beaming, I was suspicious. It seemed to me, through body language if by no other means, that she had ordered too much for a starter, and so it turned out. The first few dishes contained nouvelle cuisine quantities but they proliferated. All that had happened was that the raw fish had been tranferred to smaller dishes but raw they remained. They mulitiplied 'til there was barely room on the table for more. But still they came. It turns out she had more or less ordered everything, with her expansive sweep of the arms, which seemed to say, "What the hell! Bring it all!" He did.

I nibbled at some anchovies and a couple of prawns before their rawness occurred to me. At that point my mental state began to decline. The barbarism of eating raw flesh drains the blood from me and I whitened visibly, as the blonde observed. This however did not restrain her voracious appetite and she pretty well polished off everything.

The main course arrived and it was two apparently special and brutally expensive fish, one for each of us. They were normal looking fish but my desire to eat had gone and I aimlessly picked at it. The waitress was horrified that it lay there almost entire when she cleared the table. The fish itself seemed somehow disappointed. I hope she enjoyed it.

The bill was unpleasant. We retired, intending to go to the beach the following day; my first Adriatic dip in forty years.

Some Rancour

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We to-ed and fro-ed south and east, Tom Tom-less. I mention the lack of the TT as it became the source of debate, pursued with some rancour. I have always considered myself to be pretty good at finding my way to places. My wife disagrees and regards this as simply another example of me being unable to admit my failings. Problem is that when I am on my own when finding myself lost, I remain quiet and methodical and find my way out of the predicament. When with the blonde, I vent, curse and steam emanates from my ears. What is the point of having a warm body in the passengers seat if you can't express frustration loudly? So, she constantly urges me to invest in a TT and I steadfastly and indignantly furrow my brow and pretend not to have heard her. It is rarely my fault when lost; it is inadequate signage.

We got to La Cittá Bianca, Ostuni, and through the tourist information office found a bed and breakfast. The owners guided us up the steep street to the self contained flat. It was on the corner of a terraced street and looked tiny. We entered the most beautiful room, up a short stone staircase. The 'house' was built of the pale sandstone of the region and was a single trullo. There was a shower room and a small cooking area, mind your head. A bizarre staircase led up on to a roof terrace equipped for barbequeing; bizarre? it started a metre up the wall. A wooden extension saved us from indignity.

We stayed two nights. Truly delightful.

Heave To!

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Leaving Sermoneta that morning, all was well for a while. I started to feel strange as we wound seemingly aimlessly around the mountain roads taking us east. By Cassino, (further echos of distant war tales), I knew that time was short before my demise. I was feeling pretty bad but trying to conceal it from the blonde, as I knew her immediate reaction would be 'the wine'. I had, it's true, consumed the lion's share of the bottle, but as I had woken clear headed and fresh, I knew that it was not the culprit. The blonde, however, pins all ailments and mood swings on the last alcohol consumed. She cannot, after all, blame my periods. Interestingly though, she won't accept that that monthly affliction carries any blame for her own weird psychotic irrationality every 28 days. Can coincidence stretch that far?

Soon enough I had no option but to heave the car into one of the (mercifully) frequent lay-bys and er, well, heave. This was now mid-afternoon and the misery continued into that night, for which no ¾ bottle of fine Chianti can carry responsibility.

We checked into a converted monastery in Benevento, all archways, high ceilings and broad staircases. We always found minor irritations in Italian hotels. In the bedroom was a sign which said that the internet was available from 9am. On checking out at just after 9, I asked if I could use it but was told that it was available only at 10 in the summer. The receptionist was utterly unconcerned that the sign clearly contradicted this.

We headed for Puglia, which we were told was truly scrumptious.