Skiing - Holiday or Nightmare?

Slumped in a chair in Geneva airport at 8pm on Saturday evening, I surveyed the scene around me. Hundreds of travellers flocking around this very small airport. Normally you can spot a few sunkissed faces with a smile or two as they recall a memory of a great holiday, the cocktail they had by the beach or when they pushed a friend in the pool and laughed and laughed. Not true at Geneva airport.

Hundreds of skiers and snowboarders walk through the halls - tired, broken, battered, all of them. And I was one of them. A madman who imagined that it would be fun to go on a holiday which included 6 hours of strenuous physical pain each day. Risk of injury is high; comfort levels are low and the French/Swiss will force more cheese on you than you could possibly ever need or want. What sort of a holiday is this?

To get from Geneva airport to any ski-able area, you first have to embark on a journey of such magnitude that Aeneas himself would have sent you a postcard to congratulate your fighting spirit. For me however, he did not.

You arrive at your "chalet" where, from the warm feelings the name connotes, you might expect to find log fires and bearskin rugs, but the reality is that you have to pay an extra 15 euros just to secure rental of your bed sheets (just one of the many stealth taxes that a Ski holiday keenly enforces).

Then you sleep on your wooden plank, get up at 8am and dress yourself in one of the most uncomfortable outfits you are ever likely to wear. The ski boots make you walk at a forward angle as if you are a gorilla. It's amazing how humanity has advanced so far in this past three thousand years. I'm quite sure that when a Gorilla arrived at the cave, threw down two wooden planks with foot and fist holders and pumped his hairy chest, the other gorillas threw him out of the cave and he rolled down the mountain, never to be seen again until his French Neanderthal cousin did the same 3,000 years later and it took off from there.

It's a bizarre concept for a holiday, but those that do it (myself included) can't seem to get enough of it.

And so, as I sat slumped in Geneva airport, sipping a hot chocolate chocolat chaud which cost me around 10 swiss francs 20 english pounds, and I surveyed the wreckage of all other travellers, I thought i'd never return to this mess again in my life a small part of me knew that i'd be back in the same place again next year.

Why is Manchester so much better?

I arrived on a train at 15.04, and was swept into the crowd walking toward the underground. Reflecting on this, I considered that I was not very comfortable going into a hole in the ground when I was on thirteeen on a camping trip, so why should I be happy doing the same now (with more people and no helmet).

People walk competitively when they're in the underground, contorting their bodies to fit through people's legs and get further underground quicker.

A few hundred metres and a few hundred seconds later, I contorted my own body (or did my best with my gargantuan Christmas load) into a small tube, putting my arms and my bags where space would allow.

And then I closed my eyes, returning to my music and the peace I had enjoyed not ten minutes previously on a much quieter train. And then somebody fell on me, and spilt their Fanta on my coat and bag. After he recovered (his Fanta, then himself), his shamed face appealed to my disappointed expression. I rolled over and comforted him, nothing to worry about I thought, a bit of soft drink, I enjoy having an Orange scent anyway. It was a blessing in disguise.

I knew however that my mild-mannered response would not ensure my survival in future. You don't fall over on tubes, not if you hold the bloody hand bar like every other sensible person. I should have told him to get a grip. Literally.

Returning to my flat, I can feel the emphysema developing nicely on my chest. Welcome back to London. Why is Manchester so much better? Is it the water?

do you have room in your suitcase? NO.

It's Saturday night, and everyone seems to be out doing something social, but i'm at home in front of my laptop listening to George Michael. But please, don't feel sorry (or worried), i'm very glad to be home alone with GM's dulcet pseudo love ballads, it's a perfect opportunity to sit back and relax and let George do all the talking. 

The solitude has given me a good chance to reflect, and get crabby about something that bugged me recently: 

I heard the following conversation at work yesterday: 

 Guy: "You're going to New York next week aren't you?" 

 Guy 2: "Yes! I can't wait."

 Guy: "Great. You'll have a great time. Hey, do you reckon you could pick me up a New York Knicks basketball t-shirt?" 

 Guy 2: "Err... yeh, err...where would I get one of those?"

 Guy: "Any nike sports shop I should imagine, i'll give you the money and everything, I mean, if you have room in your luggage?"

What the fuck is up with people asking others to get them shit whilst they're on holiday? THEY'RE GOING ON HOLIDAY. THEY'RE NOT YOUR PERSONAL SHOPPERS. 

I could understand if the person was going to Peru and they were in love with Peruvian wool sweaters and had recently lost their own a washing machine disaster, or if their grandma had a Macchu Pichu fetish and needed a fridge magnet before she snuffed it - but, honestly, a New York Knicks shirt? 

I work in a digital advertising agency, surely this guy had heard of e-commerce and one of the million websites he could have bought this shirt - 

SHIT, what d'ya know - three clicks from google I found this: http://newyorkknicks.shop.sportstoday.com/Dept.aspx?cp=1042_4643

Unbelievable. If you're reading this - please don't ask me to do your international shopping, unless it is a very detailed and country-specific request. 

four-way photo

This is a photo taken by Corinna Psomadakis using a geek chic cool new camera she had recently purchased which employs a 4 shutter googly eye camera which takes four shots (I think), one after the other, giving the impression of movement across time - a very interesting photographic concept.

It just so happens she decided to debut her new camera on a couple of douchebag jokers - that would be myself and my best mate Charlie. After we had both accidentally bought the same boxer shorts, and by complete accident had both worn them on the same day, we decided to highlight this fact and Corinna decided to document it.

The outcome, I think, makes for a great photo.

Corinna is trying to learn more about photography, and you can check out her shit here:
http://larbage.tumblr.com/

celebrity babysitting

Whilst out for drinks on Saturday night, I got talking to a good friend about her latest 'babysitting' job. It transpired that she is on the cusp of earning a babysitting job with a very rich family. The exact type of family who are rich enough to pay a babysitter to go on an incredible holiday with them just so the kids can have someone to play with. This is not the first time I have heard had a friend who has somehow found a family who will pay them about £20 an hour to raid their fridge and watch The Simpson's in HD. Cristina's mother has regaled me with many stories of her college days in Malibu CA, where she would assist her living by looking after the kids of the rich and famous.

What is it with you people? Where do you find these ridiculous jobs? Is there some website community for uber-wealthy families and eager wannabe-nannies that i'm missing? 

It's all too good to be true, and I want to know who is dishing out these bloody jobs, because I want one. And before you go judging me for wanting to look after small children as a hobby, spare a thought for the kind and gentle King of Pop, who made a pretty good name for himself doing exactly the same thing. 

So this is an appeal (albeit a creepy one).

If you know a wealthy family / or are one,  are looking for someone who is great with kids, but better with a TV remote. Please tell them to get in touch. 

I won't touch diapers. Going rate is £10 an hour.

What happens now?

“It’s all over now, baby blue.” Words immortalised by folk singer Bob Dylan, but not true for Guus Hiddink, one of a handful of English football professionals still on the clock with the unfinished

business of this Saturday’s FA Cup Final to contend with.

 What about the rest of the footballers? At various points in the last month, they have finished their season-long shifts of physical torture. Now is their time for a well-deserved rest. All of the blood, sweat and tears of an English football season have finally come to settle on the hallowed turf. What happens now?

 Some of the most interesting things in football often happen when we aren’t looking – the things which Sky Sports doesn’t show. Who cleans the boots? How many pairs of fresh socks does Robinho need for every game? Who takes care of the ball boys?

 Football, from Liverpool to Luton Town, is a gigantic machine. It requires diligent minds and dedicated people behind every kick of the ball. You may not hear about them on the back pages, but it’s them we can thank for everything we love about football.

 The season may have all but finished for the footballers. And after Saturday’s game, the fans can also take their two month sabbatical and watch some Cricket instead. But in each and every football club in the country, armies of staff are already preparing. Cutting the grass of the training ground, drawing up new tactical boards and printing names on new football shirts. The football season never stops, it just goes quiet for a few weeks. 

Class of the Catalans - Champions League Final

Last night, in a smoky Irish pub in North West London, I watched a battle of champions. Kings in each of their countries, heroes amongst their people, it really was the fight of all fights. It's only football you might say, not worth romanticising. In this case, it deserves all the glorification we can give it. 

This was truly the biggest sporting stage in the world. The best players, from all countries and backgrounds, playing for the biggest accolade, in the most popular and widely followed sport in this planet's history. Unless dinosaurs played some form of shuffleboard we don't know about - it doesn't get much bigger than this.

And last night, Manchester United couldn't cope with the skill and craft of Barcelona. 

Alex Ferguson, manager of United for over 18 years, football sensei, could not overcome the tactical wits of a much younger Pep Guardiola, an infantile 38 year-old in his first year of management. And he can make no excuses - both managers have the same chess pieces in front of them. One manager's bishop may be stronger than the others, but the other may have a stronger castle - in the end they both have the best players in the world, it's just about how you play the pieces. 

For Barcelona, possession is 9/10ths of the law, and therefore you need to concentrate on stealing the ball from them to have any chance of winning. Ferguson employed his two most frenetic and hassling players, Rooney and Ji Sung Park, on the fringes of the game where they had no influence. 

Against Chelsea, Barcelona had already proven themselves to be frantic in defence, making mistakes under pressure and giving away costly fouls in the penalty box. Chelsea were unlucky not to have won at least two of four legitimate penalty calls. But where did Manchester United exploit this weak point? Where did they effectively dribble the ball into zones which would directly worry the fickle Barcelona defenders? In a game of this magnitude, even a world-class defender will do anything he can to prevent an opposition goal, even if it means the risk of giving away a penalty.

Manchester United may be champions of the Premier League, but this defeat will hurt Ferguson's pride more than any other. His wonder boys, with so much hope resting on their shoulders, were expected in February to achieve the unachievable and sweep all five major competition trophies. Now they walk away with just two. 

United will regroup, rebuild and Ferguson will dig deep and replenish himself for one final push. Before he does, he would be wise to take a look at the best team in the Europe, his conquerors. A team owned by their fans, who forego a lucrative sponsorship deal and donate their shirt to Unicef, whose players learn to play with pride and to play beautifully at all costs.