Mahinda’s Little World

It’s been a looooooooong time since I last blogged, and boy have I picked up some stories since then! I’ve just blogged my tale from last night, but there’s plenty more where that came from.

I’ve been called blond, and white, and obese. All in the space of five days.

I’ve been to Rome…and the sprawling metropolis that is Leeds.

There have been a couple more weddings, obviously. And a couple more to come. I even even wore a kilt. And no, I’m not going to dignify _that_ question with a response!

Unfortuantely, while the three months either side of today will have featured four weddings…it’s also featured a funeral of Aunty Hosana, someone who’d been very close to me when I was growing up. I’m not going to report on the funeral, but I’ve reminisced before about what she meant to me.

Continuing the sad theme, I’ve still not found love, so there’s no gossip for all you vultures out there. Well, there is gossip, but nothing of the positive variety…and I’m not going to go round blogging about it for a change.

On a lighter note, I’ve turned 30. Yes, I feel suitably old. 

Lastly, I’ve just been promoted, but not to the job I’d applied for. It’s weird — I’ve had four job titles in my 8-year odyssey at [company name withheld], and only one of them was a job I’d actually gone for.

I’ve not blogged for bloody ages!

Sorry folks, but it’s just kind of happened that way. I should get back into the habit — I’ve picked up a few good stories since I last wrote, anyway, and I’ll start with last night’s episode…

On the way home from work, I dropped some books and a shower head (don’t ask) off at Rosy’s place. As I left his house and headed back to the car, there was an old man on the street, with lots of shopping bags, who thought I was a taxi. I told him I wasn’t, and he begged me for a lift home, just on Yew Tree Road. He was harmless enough, just a bit doddery and drunk. And Irish.

The chap looked absolutely freezing, and I had nowhere else to be (for a change), so I thought I’d do a good deed.

He turned out to be called Oliver, and well into the "you’re my beshth friend" stage of drunkeness. 

So I drove him down to what turned out to be a little close just opposite the Man City training complex, and helped him with his bags — he was spilling turnips everywhere. When I realised that his place was just off the close, I decided that I should probably lock the car up. 

So I locked the passenger side door…and realised just as it slammed shut it that the central locking had decided to work for a change…and lock the driver’s door too. I was locked out of my car, with the engine on and my phone in the door pocket.

BUGGER.

I helped Oliver home with his bags, and asked if he had a phone — my plan was to phone home and see if I could get Housemate Andy round to pick me up so I could find my spare keys. Oliver couldn’t find his mobile, which I figure was probably just in a different pocket. No matter — he took me round to a neighbour’s place…who allegedly had no credit.

At this point, I was thinking of running home anyway…but there was another neightbour to try. "Lovely girl, I’m sure she’ll help" slurred Oliver.

We knocked on the door at no.4. A small child in a Cyberman costume stared back at us through the window. Eventually, the door was opened by a woman (a rather pretty brunette, as it happens) about my age.

"Is yer mother in?" asked my companion, "My friend here’s lost ‘is phone".

I shushed him and explained what had actually happened, and Emma (for that be her name) let me use her phone.

Turns out Oliver was trying to get hold of the (older) woman in the flat above. Close enough, anyway. 

So, the phone call home. No answer. All the other useful numbers were in my phone.

Oliver wasn’t helping — he’d gone into "manic but well-meaning mode" if you see what I mean, where someone’s drunkenly trying to help but really isn’t. I ushered him home, told him to get some rest, and asked Emma if she’d mind keeping an eye on the car. I then started running the two miles back home. Got to Wilbraham Road…and realised that leaving my car with its engine running, in Rusholme, for at least 40 minutes, was not a great idea.

It’s at this point that I realised that I’m an RAC member, and they do things like that…so I ran back to Emma’s and asked her if I could use her phone again, this time for an 0800 number. The RAC said they’d be 45 minutes, so she invited me in and we sat there chatting for a while. It was her son’s 5th birthday, and we talked mostly about spiders.

Eventually, RAC bloke got there, laughed at me, poked a metal rod in between door and frame, and pressed the button to wind down the window. Job done. 

Well, they say one good turn deserves another…which sort of applied. I’d much rather not have needed one myself, though!

Wow. Just…wow.

I didn’t expect it, but this ended up as one of my favourite holidays!

In terms of my holidays, this was notable for lots of things:

• Most expensive (ouch)
• Biggest group (27)
• Coolest locations (Kensington Oval, amongst others)
• Most sun, sea and sand (lots)
• Most rum consumed (shudder)
• Most sport played (several matches)

This is VERY belated blogging as it is, but never mind.

There are many many photos on Facebook — mine are here and here.

Basically, we played hockey, we drank, we ate, we partied, and some of us even explored a bit.

First, I’ll lift the two letters home I stuck on Facebook — those’ll give you a flavour of the first few days….

Letter from Barbados

I’m in Barbados. It’s ace!

For those that don’t know (and I’ve been insufferably smug about it all lately, so there won’t be many of you), I’m over here for a fortnight, for the Banks International Hockey Tournament. That’s as in Banks beer, the local brew, rather than any financial institutions. I’m there with Sale Hockey Club — there’s 27 of us, comprising one mixed team and some travelling support.

The opening ceremony was on Sunday, at the Kensington Oval — a VERY impressive ground…well, half of it, anyway. It’ll be even better once they build a couple more stands on the currently empty side of the ground.

We got to parade around the outfield, with music and stuff — I think there’s 24 clubs involved, local and international, with most teams from the UK and Barbados. There’s also some Trinidadians, Germans, Dutch and Americans.

Our first match was yesterday, against some Scottish uni OTC types. We expected to get a hammering, with the opposition’s army-style fitness destroying us in the tropical heat. Instead, we won 2-0, and it could have been 6-0. Bring on the locals later this afternoon!

Hurricane Dean just missed us — a few of our touring party were here last week, and they got to experience the winds and rain at its edge. Scary. It’s winding its way across the Caribbean at the moment, and was due to hit Category 5 the last I heard. For those that don’t know, that’s up there with Katrina. It just missed Jamaica yesterday, I think, and was due to hit the Caymans and then Cancun.

Hope you’re all having fun back in Blighty. I think I’ll head over to the beach for a quick swim before catching the minibus to this afternoon’s game. Come on in, the water’s lovely

More from the Caribbean

First game, on Monday — the aforementioned 2-0 win against the Scots, which we followed up with a 0-2 (I think) defeat at the hands of a local side. By way of celebration, we all got well and truly blasted on Tuesday night — a tenner for all-you-can-drink action, including Mount Gay XO rum. Mmmmm.

So, Wednesday morning came, and we had two games. The first was at the Banks Brewery ground, so featured a lovely smell of malt. Which really made the hangover pleasant. We got beaten, 0-3 or something, by a local team who were helped by some absolutely shocking umpiring — the other foreign teams report similar stories. They were the better team, though.

Later on in Wednesday, it was another forces team, from a British regiment currently serving in Germany. We beat them quite easily, 2-0 again I think.

Thursday was the big day — a 10 o’clock match at the Kensington Oval itself, against Maples, a club based near where we were staying. We lost. 1-7. Our goal game early, while their ‘keeper was stuck in traffic. Bugger.

Well, it’s certainly not the first time a touring English side have been utterly destroyed at the Kensington Oval.

More Hockey-related Stuff

So that’s all I got time to write on Facebook about it. And almost the end of the hockey bit. All that’s left is the finals day.

Unlike many of the other teams, we watched all the finals, getting royally drunk in the process and hurling abuse at the refs. The best match by far was the men’s final — Grasshoppers vs. Dominion, I think.

Grasshoppers were a Dutch touring side full of ex-internationals — they were absolute quality, and a good bunch of lads. They’d brought lots of equipment to give to local kids, and ran hockey workshops as well. The local lads, Dominion (I think) were very big, very fast, and very fit. It was a really tight match, destined for extra time…until Dominion got about three short corners in a row right at the end…they scored from the last to take the match

And that was that. In summary, the first week of the tour was bloody hard work. I think I enhanced my alcoholic reputation, but doing so almost killed me!

We partied more than just about any other team (but were robbed of the "best party team" prize thanks to not really doing the official socials), and had a great time.

That’s enough for now — I’ll tell you more about the rest of the holiday when I sit down to write Part II…

Now, I don’t think I’ve ever made a football-related post on here before. For those of you who don’t know, I’m a Spurs fan. I’m not a massively committed fan — decidedly armchair, to be honest — but they’re my team, and will be through thick (occasionally) and thin (mostly).

At the moment, we’re in the bottom three of the Premiership. A position I got used to back in the mid-90s, but didn’t expect to see this season. At all. This season was going to be a march to glory and the Champions’ League…but then, which season isn’t for Spurs these days?

Last night, Spurs lost to Getafe, a struggling Spanish team, in the UEFA Cup. But that’s not important right now. The most significant event of the day was Martin Jol’s departure. A shad day for Spursh, to use his low countries slur.

During his 3-year tenure, Jol had dragged the club up the league, getting two 5th-place finishes. What’s more, it was largely done with attractive football, often full of breathtaking attacking moves. Tottenham football. When some Spurs fans say that they’d rather lose an incredible game 5-4 than win a dour one 1-0, they mean it. Forget the teacup rides and merry-go-rounds — it’s the the rollercoasters that you remember.

He was also media savvy, always there with a cheeky soundbite. Joyful in victory but also magnanimous in defeat — as anyone who can remember his interview after the 1-0 that never was at Old Trafford. The complete opposite of Hoddle, never mind Gooner George.

Lastly, he was (and still is!) a comedy Dutchman, with accent to match. Not to mention his brothers Cock and Dick. Oh how we laughed!

And now he’s gone. It was probably time for him to go — he’d clearly lost the dressing room, never mind the club’s higher management. He may not have been the main reason for the club’s recent slump (personally, I’d point fingers at a shambolically out-of-form goalkeeper and a perpetually injured defensive leader), but he was the manager.

Good luck to him. I hope that, one day, he manages his beloved Ajax to glory…or even gets the Dutch national manager’s post.

Goodbye Martin Jol

I had a very strange dream last night, and I have absolutely no idea what brought it on.

A long time ago, I fell through the floor while exploring in a disused farm building. Stepped on a rotten beam and the next thing I knew was that I was lying flat on my back on the ground floor concrete — a drop of at least four metres, I reckon. I was probably out cold for at least twenty seconds.

Why is that relevant? It’s definitely coincidence, but that’s my last memory before I was told that I was short-sighted and had to wear glasses. I was ten or eleven years old at the time.

So, this dream. For some reason, while brushing my teeth, I saw something strange in the corner of my right eye (it must have been my right, as that’s the one that used to have worse vision)…so, I pulled on it, and a large (as in, eye-sized and pretty thick) shard of glass came out. This scared me somewhat, but my eye was fine.

And I could see! Apparently, it was the glass that had caused my short-sightedness…and the other eye had been compensating, so that was fine now as well.

As to how no-one had spotted the glass before, I don’t know. I do remember thinking, in the dream, that it must have embedded itself during the aforementioned fall.

The rest of the dream consisted of me wandering around doing normal stuff without my glasses on, yet being able to see. I was pretty elated by it.

I wonder what it means?

Please, no glass eye jokes in the comments. This is a family blog!

Not quite a holiday, but not exactly work either.

This August, I finally made it down to the Great British Beer Festival (GBBF), at Earl’s Court.

Now, while I’m a regular at the Winter Ales Fest, pretty much the "other" national beer festival, I’ve not really been to the true beasts — Peterborough, Cambridge and of course this, the alcoholic daddy of them all.

So, I’d been planning for a few years to take the week off work and work it properly — helping with set up, bar work and take down. Unfortunately, work commitments got in the way — I couldn’t take the week off with a clear conscience — so all I did was late-Thursday to mid-Sunday.

Thursday

Got there pretty late, just in time to find Laura at the staffing desk, sign in, and manage a stint at the glasses counter. This, of course, qualified me for entry to the staff session at the end of the day.

Laura. It was her email, beckoning CAMRA youngsters in the Manchester/Cheshire area to a trip to the Hydes Brewery, that kick-started my journey into active CAMRAdom. In the six years since, she’s had a few children and her husband, Mark (aka Goliath) is the head honcho of the whole damn GBBF.

The staff session. In Earl’s Court’s upper hall, there is a whole whopping great area for staff and staff alone. This includes the Volunteer Arms, a fully-stocked and very well kept bar, open for most of the festival. And free. With over a thousand thirsty staff over the week, it’s actually bigger than some beer festivals!

So, I drank a few pints before catching the coach back to where I was staying — free coaches are laid on just after midnight to take you back to your accommodation. I was staying at one of LSE’s halls (Carr-Saunders, I think), close to Tottenham Court Road, which wasn’t bad at all.

Friday

I worked at the Mid-West bar on Friday, which caused a bit of confusion as most people weren’t quite sure what it meant. Fortunately, it wasn’t anything to do with the cornfields of Kansas or Ohio, but more the area encompassing Staffs, Cheshire, and possibly Derbyshire and Herefordshire too. Weird, but it did include a few breweries I knew, e.g. Beartown.

I should point out here that the basic layout is of two large bar squares, comprising eight bars each, with food, brewery stands, etc. laid out in between the two of them. Each bar correseponds to a particular geographical area, e.g. Wales, Scotland, Northwest.

On Friday evening, I met up with Jordan, Barney, Kathy and John for an evening of Monty Python goodness — we went to see Spamalot…which was absolutely bloody brilliant! Full of in-jokes, bad puns and, of course, great big sharp pointy teeth. It’s a beast, I tells you!

I wouldn’t get back to the fest in time for closing, so went for a pint with the others before meandering back to my bedroom and crashing out. I really was knackered by this point.

Saturday

On Saturday, I reported for duty at the Wales bar. Not too many beers I knew…but there were plenty of tasty dark ales to keep me happy.

Late afternoon arrived, and I headed off to help with the Young Persons’ Bar Crawl, led by Gus, our intrepid Young Members’ Group leader. This was brilliant — lots of people, lots of banter, and lots of free beer. It was a real buzz, a whistle-stop tour carried out at absolute breakneck pace. I think I played my part in getting a fair few people signed up…although there were the Aussies who kept asking for "something cold and fizzy". Not round here, mate.

Back to the Wales bar then, and on to the big staff party at the end of it all. Much food, much beer, much merriment. And a life-sized fibreglass cow. Thank you, Badger brewery, from whom Daisy was confiscated. Long story.

The coaches left at something like 2am, and we were all knackered.

We’d sold huge amounts of beer (270,000 pints was the final total), had something like 64,000 people through the door…who consumed just over a metric tonne of scratchings. 1020 kg of very fine pork scratchings. Wow!

I made it to breakfast on Sunday morning…just…and thence back to Earl’s Court to help with the take-down. I ended up helping out in the loading bay — tracking down barrels and stuff so that the various breweries’ vans could load up and leave. Definitely good exercise for the arms — lugging part-full casks around, World’s Strongest Man style!

Didn’t have my watch on, so ended up late meeting Amandhi. We ended up heading to Euston and chatting for a while before I caught the train back home.

In Summary…

All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable (long) weekend. However, I think I prefer working at the Winter Ales Fest (NWAF). GBBF is the flagship event, a different scale to the others, and is run very professionally. It has to be. But I just don’t find it as much FUN.

NWAF is, not exactly amateurish, but more laid-back. As a result, it’s got more of an informal vibe. The customers help with this — I found the general banter at GBBF a lot worse than at NWAF (or any other Northern beer festivals), especially on Friday evening. Maybe it’s because they’re Londoners, or are just there to drink after hard days at their respective offices (but that’s the same as NWAF). I dunno. I just enjoyed it less.

Would I go back there? Possibly — I’d still like to give it the whole week and see what it’s like to do it properly. But, given the choice, I’d prefer to take my days off for NWAF.

It’s gone, that’s where.

Summer this year didn’t really turn up, at least not in this corner of England. I generally regard the time between the May and August bank holidays as summer proper — before, and it’s a bit chilly; after, and it’s September, which is a school month and therefore Not Summer.

As such, my summer usually starts and ends with a bit of a holiday. Either the hockey Isle of Man tour or Hattrick Euro Boozer to start, and all manner of things to mark the end — there’s been the Reading Festival, Notts Uni RamSoc get-togethers, and of course the odd holiday (Sri Lanka for 2005 and 2006, Barbados this year…but more about that later).

One moment, though. When did ’summer’ lose its capital S? Back when I were a lad, I was taught to capitalise the seasons…which nobody seems to do any more. I’ve gone with the flow and made it all lower-case…but I still feel a pang of incorrectness whenever I do.

For the last few years, my summer has been full of tennis sessions in the park, usually Fog Lane. This year, we had one over the Easter weekend, and one a few weeks ago with just Adam and me…and that’s it. Rubbish. I’ve not seen Bethan, a regular partner last year, all summer.

Of course, the weather this year has been pretty atrocious…judging by how the Wednesday hockey sessions have been, it’s not actually been all that rainy, but there haven’t really been any scorching hot spells save a few weeks in early May. Early May doesn’t count.

So now the students are coming back and Manchester’s university corridor is livening up once more. As usual, I’ll miss the quiet once it’s gone, and the last week of September will be warm and sunny. But not summer.

Oh, and I’ve been rubbish on the blog front. I’m trying to rectify that little matter…

The annual Hattrick European Boozer, this time to Blartislava…way back at the end of May.

I managed to watch Hostel, the rather gruesome horror flick set in Bratislava*, the very night before leaving for a long weekend…in a hostel…in Bratislava. Oops. I’d been before though (with Josephine, in a former millennium and a former life) and it was pleasant enough.

* But actually filmed elsewhere, hence my confusion when not recognising any of the scenes on screen.

The hostel was good, the beer was both cheap and good, and it’s a lovely little city. Possibly not exciting enough for the full five days, but day trips to Vienna (ergh) and Devin Castle (stunning) helped.

We only had one dodgy bit, which was a run-in with some neo-Nazi-ish football hooligans in Sub Club (which otherwise promised to be a great little nightclub). Generally, us Brits really aren’t liked on the continent. So very different from my travels of ‘96 and ‘99

On the subject of differences, the place had changed so much in seven years. I hardly recognised it. We did find a great little restaurant where Josephine and I ate, many years ago, and I had a gorgeous steak stuffed with mushrooms, ham and cheese…but it was pretty much derelict.

Other memories include:

• "Cheap bar"
  The the first local-priced drinking establishment we found — only a few yards away from the expensive tourist traps.
• Club ’80s
  Oh yeah. Recommended by a waiter at Cheap Bar (who we thought was saying "Club Eddie’s"), this became something of a default, being a locals-ish cellar bar with dancefloor and a DJ amenable to suggestion. He was absolutely delighted when Pete and I requested Guns ‘n’ Roses, as were half the clientèle. Decent cheap cocktails, too.
• Big local bloke
  I can’t remember this guy’s name, but he was a relatively wealthy local who’d travelled a bit and got chatting with us in Club ’80s. Good lad, and gave us a few tips on what to see, which included…
• Slavin cemetery
  "Really close to your hostel" he said. Bloody miles away, more likely. This was the Russian war cemetery, on top of a hill a couple of miles out of the city centre — a tranquil and impressive monument, but nothing more. I was the only one who went, on an absolutely sweltering day.
• Old local graveyard
  On the way back from Slavin, I found this place. A hugely atmospheric rambling graveyard, full of stooped trees and mossy stonework. I proceeded to get lost in it, which was actually a pleasant experience.
• Pool hall
  Next door to our hostel was a little pool hall, situated in the cellars of the big apartment-type building. A couple of tables and a bar, all nicely chilled and therefore a prime place to hang out. It did have the slowest service in the world ever, though, with a waitress who seemed utterly unaware of how to pull a pint. We’re convinced the place was laundering money.
• Hostel
  Oh yes, the hostel. We were at the Downtown Backpacker’s Hostel, which was nice enough. Not the best I’ve stayed at, but nowhere near the worst. The staff were pretty friendly, especially Latzo…
• Latzo
  A strange but friendly (and very dry) chap, who seemed to take a shine to Dan, the smallest and fluffiest of our group. We made much mileage of this fact. I got on with the bloke, and chatted with him a fair bit over the weekend. So much so that he gave me a present of a bottle of local wine…which I drank with the lads that very night. I feel quite guilty about that.
• Poker
  On our last night there, a few of us ended up playing poker back at the hostel — and I won! A bit of beer money, but the drunken feeling of victory was far more significant! That’s when we drank Latzo’s wine. It was quite nice.
• Dark beer
  Oh yes. Why on Earth don’t we get more dark lager in Blighty? Just about every bar we visited had a pump for the stuff — I think I got one or two of the group on to the stuff, too.
• 1. Slovak Pub – website
  Strange name, great pub…but very very warm and stuffy and humid. HUGE place, and a bit of a student hangout — dirt cheap, tasty grub, all in interesting surroundings that could be a bit tourist trap-ish…but just aren’t. We’d have spent a lot more time there if it wasn’t so warm that weekend.
• Prasna Basta – website
  One of Latzo’s recommendations, and a very good one too. So good we ate there twice. The first time degenerated into an absinthe-fuelled monster of an evening
• Café Verne
  The last restaurant I’ll mention here, this was yet another recommendation from Latzo. A cheap hangout on one of the main squares, it was right in between expensive classy touristy joints…and served excellent food (I think there were three types of goulash, all great). I think we ate there three times. Also notable for an extremely perky waitress.
• The castle
  Don’t go there. It’s basically an underfunded art gallery of a museum. I’d forgotten all about it, and I therefore take the blame for letting our group spend time there. I should have known better.
• The Wireless Well
  For some reason, there was an old well in the middle of Old Town…that had wireless internet access. Handy for those with phones that could use it. Odd but good.
• Canadian girl and Louis (or however it’s spelt)
  I can’t remember her name, but we met a Canadian girl in the hostel, and Louis, a seasoned traveller who was hanging around with her. She was pretty lovely, and the object of some affections for a while. Louis, pronounced ‘Loo-ee’, was a grizzled old chap, with Hispanic roots, with a whole stack of tales — we kept bumping into him. I spent quite a while swapping travel stories with him, and realised that, well, my travels have actually been quite interesting.
• Samantha
  I left on my own, a few hours after the penultimate batch left and, when catching the bus to the station (and thence to the airport, via another bus), saw a couple of girls, one sporting a heavy pack, also leaving the hostel. Only one caught the bus, and we got chatting. She was from Delaware, just across the river from Philadelphia, where I’d been the previous week. We hung out together while waiting a few hours for our flights. More swapping of tales ensued. We should probably have swapped email addresses. Oh well.
• The trip home
  This is a story in itself. At one point I was expecting not to get home until 5.30am, with work the next day. As it worked out, I managed something like 3am. Phew.

…and nobody got sliced up. Which is definitely a good thing.

That’ll do for now. I have a couple of okay photos. Might put them on Facebook one of these days.

So, there are a couple of things I missed out.

Firstly, the photos are now online.

As is a little video. Nothing exciting:

Lastly, I’ve found a slip of paper that served as the menu at Nodding Head. Here’s what they had:

• BPA
  Bill Payer Ale…hoppy pale ale…separated from many of its counterparts by a solid malt backbone.
• Gordo’s Oatmeal Stout
  Classic oatmeal stout…medium bodied and pleasantly roasty…hints of caramel and toffee in the finish.
• All Night Ale
  British-style dark mild…brown in colour with plenty of flavor (sic) and significant body…blended with espresso from our good friends at Café Loftus (which kind of makes it not "British-style" at all — Ed)
• Monkey Knife Fight
  Asian influenced blonde lager…light bodied infused with the flavors of ginger and lemongrass…everbody loves a monkey (true).
• Prudence Pale Ale
  Everything you would expect from a pale ale…amber in color with a medium body and lots of hop flavor and aroma…all at a mere 3.75% ABV.
• 60 Shilling
  Lighter Scottish-style ale…amber and malty…reminds us all that sometimes there just aren’t enough O’s in smooth.

I had the stout and the All Night Ale, which were both pretty good. I’m very glad to know that I’m not the only person to use the word ‘roasty’.

Oh, and there’s some small print at the bottom of the menu:

Nodding Head has made a commitment to serving the highest quality ales and lagers. If you are not pleased with one of our beers, it is not because it is poorly brewed, but more accurately, not to your taste. We do not offer refunds for our beer. If you are uncertain about a beer, please feel free to ask your server for a sample.

Not very friendly, is it? I suspect it’s more to deal with the Budweiser drinkers who head in there, ask for a pint of mild, and complain that it tastes horrible. Or rather, that it just tastes.

Okay, so we’ve established that I walked and ate a lot during my week away. I drank a little but, being on my own, I was hardly going out on the rampage.

Actually, I should mention Eulogy, a Belgian bar I found in the tourist district (old town) — as well as a decent selection on draught, they have a seriously comprehensive bottled beer menu, with everything from Old Tom to some very stange Lambics. And it’s owned by a real Belgian! I had a very strong and very tasty trippel, brewed in Canada of all places.

So, on with the story…

(this is fast becoming Mahinda’s Guide to Philadelphia)

Touristy Stuff

During the week, I walked around a lot — more getting a feel for the city (and scoping out restaurants!) than doing museums and the like. I just didn’t fancy it, really.

The main touristy stuff I did was on the Saturday and Sunday…which actually remained fairly dry and sunny, despite the seriously doomy gloomy forecasts. I walked around old town, including the five or six blocks set aside as historic parkland ("Independence Park"). Pretty, in an old colonial way.

The Liberty Bell was, well, everything I expected it to be. Nowhere near as large as people expect, in essence it’s just a small-to-medium-sized bell with a whopping great crack in it. Oh, and lots of history to go along with that. It was surrounded by Scouts, and getting into the building featured security checks that would have made Heathrow proud.

After that, it was off to the Betsy Ross house — she was the seamstress who may (or may not, according to recent research) have created the very first independent American flag. Here’s where it felt slightly weird — this was an ordinary enough 200ish-year-old house in which some woman who sewed (or didn’t) a flag once resided. That’s not exactly History with a big ‘H’, is it? Still, I suppose you’ve got to take what you can get, and Americans do have somewhat stronger feelings towards their flags than us Brits.

On the subject of the flag, it really did evolve some. Here’s a page detailing its history. One of the stranger ones is the "Don’t Tread on Me" flag featuring a rattlesnake — seemingly out of place amidst all the red, blue and white.

Zap!

Straddling all this history like a collossus was Benjamin Franklin. Now, I was aware he was quite a statesman, as well as being one of the true scientific geniuses, but I didn’t realise quite how caught up he was in American history.

Well, he was.

The Franklin Institute seems a bit like our own Science Museum in tone…but I didn’t go in. I did, however, visit Franklin Court, which was more about the man himself — lots of exhibits on his life and times, but the real star was the glass armonica.

Have you ever made a wine glass "sing" by holding its base and rubbing a wet finger on its rim? No? Seriously, you should. It’s an amazing sound. The pitch of the sound you make is controlled by how much liquid is in the glass (and the characteristics of glass itself).

So, Franklin decided to make an instrument out of this principle — rather than describe it here, I’ll point you towards some better pages:

• Wikipedia
• Franklin Institute (including "play it yourself" web wizardry)
• Some muso bloke

I was lucky enough to see (and hear!) a demonstration of the fully-working replica armonica they’ve got in Franklin Court. Haunting. It’s very much like playing the piano apparently, with each glass edge being a key. The young Mozart was so impressed that he composed a piece especially for it.

Unfortunately, the glass armonica is a VERY expensive thing to produce — each glass bowl has to be perfectly tuned, and it’s of course a bit on the fragile side. We’re talking thousands of pounds here.

I exited Franklin Court to find that I’d just missed a heavy shower. Instead, I got a rainbow.

ComedySportz

While I didn’t make it to the theatre, despite there being a Shakespeare festival running, I did at least take in some comedy. Improv, in fact — ComedySportz. Very much like Who’s Line is it Anyway in style, this had something of an Edinburgh Fringe feel to it, right down to the studio theatre. If you’re in Philly and stuck for something to do of an evening, try to take in one of the 10pm shows — it’s fully worth the admission!

Adriennnnnnne!

The number one biggest tourist cliché in Philadelphia is the steps of the Philadephia Musem of Art, aka the Rocky Steps. Benjamin Franklin Boulevard (who else?!) stretches a mile or so from the city centre, running diagonally across the grid network, to terminate in this impressive façade.

On the Sunday, I finally made it over to the end, in absolutely glorious sunshine. I couldn’t help but hum the Rocky theme as I walked up…which was considerably more restrained than the various people jumping up and down at the top, indulging in a spot of shadow-boxing.

It’s a lovely view from the top, and I hear the Art Museum itself if very good. I wasn’t in the mood to spend such a glorious day indoors, however, so I moseyed on to…

Escape!

This one was my favourite — the prison upon which many of the world’s other prisons are based. Eastern State Penitentiary (ESP) was the first actual ‘penitentiary’, where prisoners would be left to, in theory, reflect on their sins in (Quaker-inspired) silence and isolation, with little or no contact with anyone else during their sentences.

That last link was to Wikipedia — the official website is pretty good, too.

Of course, the initial ideas fell into disarray with the onset of overcrowding, corruption and so on, but the ideas were there. The very design of the place, with long linear corridors radiating out from a central room (from where a single guard could see every single corridor), was revolutionary.

I took the audio tour, as well as a guided one on prison breaks — all very Shawshank! In fact, that’s where the place’s atmosphere came from for me — the silent crumbling walls and massive thick stonework were straight out of the general genre of American prison films.

It was topical too — at the time, I was reading a trilogy (borrowed from Rosy) in which the reincarnation (vaguely — it’d take too long to explain) of Al Capone was one of the chief villains…and, in ESP, I got to see Al Capone’s old cell. And very plush it was, too.

Oversea, Undersea, Wombleing Free

I almost forgot this one. Out to the east of the city, on the banks of the Delaware river, is an area called Penn’s Landing, which of course is where William Penn originally set foot on land and founded Philadelphia (Greek-ish for "city of brotherly love" of course).

Well, the area now seems to be a sort of leisure zone, complete with mall and the Independence Seaport Museum. Did I mention that just about everything in the city had "Independence" applied liberally? Well, it did. Everywhere. Given that I’m actually writing this on 2nd July, I’d imagine that that’s even more pronounced right now. Ergh. There’s pride…and there’s tackiness. I suppose I just don’t understand, given that it’s not my pride.

Anyway, Independence Seaport. It was a colleague of Michael’s (who’s in Dallas, but has workmates from all over) who recommended "the submarine thing" to me, and I eventually found out what it was.

Basically, they’ve got a WWII sub, the Becuna, moored up and open to visitors. They’ve also got a great big iron-hull, the USS Olympia, next to it – dating back to 1892, it’s actually the "oldest steel warship afloat in the world". So there.

It was all absolutely fascinating — the contrast between the cramped confines of the sub and the relative opulence (but, in some respects, worse conditions) of the ship. For example, the submarine crews seemed to be a law unto themselves, a sort of special club amongst the navy. And I suppose they’d have to be! The submariners’ food was probably better, for a start.

On the subject of contrast, I had a good look into a WWII German-style (but actually Finnish) U-boat a few years ago — the Vesikko, moored on the island of Suomenlinna, just off Helsinki. It provided quite a contrast — the American vessel was MUCH larger, probably with all the pros and cons inherent in that.

One of the most striking things [on the Becuna] was one of the sets of bunks, where the sailors would pretty much sleep on top of the torpedoes that they’d eventually fire. Probably not a job for the nervous!

Summary

Anyway, after boring you with all that, I’d heartily recommend Philly for a long weekend, if not a week or two — it’s certainly a vibrant enough place, with friendly people and plenty of stuff to do. And eat. Definitely eat

I’ll leave you with a quote from Franklin himself:

"Three can keep a secret
                    …if two of them are dead."