Be healthy, live longer

A report out the other day lists life style factors that contribute to higher cancer risks. A long, and extensive bit of research has concluded that smoking, excessive drinking, obesity, insufficient exercise, and excessive consumption of red meat means that you're more likely to die earlier.

That is such an unexpected result! Clearly, there is a Nobel price for medicine in the wings here.

Permanent vacation

We have a bunch of students living next door. To be fair to them, they are generally reasonably considerate. We've asked them once on a Sunday (or Monday, actually) to keep it down a bit at 3am, as we need our beauty sleep in order to get up for work. However, Rich, the builder installing the bathroom relayed the following story.

Whilst Sarah and I were diving in Egypt, Rich started work around the 8-8:30am mark. A knock on the door, Thursday morning around 9am. Pyjama-clad student on the door, clearly marked from the night before.

"Hey, man - you think you can keep it down a bit?"

"Not really, no. This is the time when people generally are at work"

"Yeah, but Thursdays are the only mornings I get a layin, and generally go out the Wednesday"

Rich is somewhat unsympathetic to the man's plight. The student carries on:

"Can you do something about it?"

"I can lend you a pair or ear defenders."

"But the couple here asked us to be quiet one night..."

"Well, perhaps now you understand what it feels like?"

Sheesh. Stoodents, eh.

The return of the one-armed man

I went back to the wall yesterday for the first time in about 6 months of forced absence due to tennis elbow. Today I feel like I've been through a full spin cycle - everything hurts. Everything but the elbow, that is. For me, that's exceedingly good news, which I'm doing my best to focus on, instead of the fact that I'm weak as a new-born child, somewhat inevitably.

Now, it's of course hard to be excited about indoor climbing, but I have to admit to having missed the testosterone-fuelled posturing (and that's just the girls..), the misfits, the acres of naked flesh, the almost unbreathable, chalk-filled, sweaty atmosphere, the clubby soundtrack, the who's doing who rumor mongering. And of course the latest set of boulder problems. The irritating thing is that when I injured myself, I was probably at the strongest I've ever been. I did go upstairs to give the campus board the evil eye.

Wedding Final

We had a wonderful time at Nick & Jo's wedding on Saturday, complete with a barn storming barn dance, and RWC final on in a cupboard next door. Nick and Jo's first dance was truly spectacular, and I just wished I'd have the sense to pick up my jaw and find the camera to video it. Straight out of Strictly Come Dancing.

Usually, I like to moan about how the English love to love the plucky loser (hi Tim), but the RWC silver medal really is an outstanding achievement by a team that was 80-1 at the beginning of the tournament. Was it a try? Who cares - Ashton said it well - speculation is pointless. If the ref says so, then so it is.

England remembered how to fight, and although the Boks took the silver ware, England did their dirty work for them by sending home the Wallabies and Les Bleues.

Dive the Red Sea

We've just come back from a week's diving from the Red Sea 'resort' of Marsa Alam. The word resort is perhaps a bit misplaced, in that it's a hotel plonked where the desert meets the sea, and if you're not there for the diving, you're not there. Given the landscape, we might as well have been on the moon. Still, the hotel is very nice. This trip represented a lot of firsts for me - first time in Africa, first time in a Muslim country, first time in Egypt, first time in the Red Sea.
We had wavered between the thought of a live-aboard and day tripping out of a hotel, but to get the most out of a Red Sea live-aboard you need to have at least 50 logged dives in order to access certain of the more remote marine parks. Before this trip, neither me nor Sarah had reached that level. Besides, it's actually quite nice to be able to return to a proper room with a proper bed in the evenings.

The diving outfit, Emperor Divers, displayed the effortless air of multicultural professionalism we've come to expect from dive centres around the world. The diving community is a nomadic tribe, and we ended up diving primarily under the guidance of Mo and Chris, Egyptian and English respectively, and a motley crew of primarily UK divers. The Coral Beach Diving Hotel has no beach, but it does butt up to the harbour, meaning that we had a 30-second walk from the breakfast table to the boat in the morning, which was great. Each day of diving
followed mostly the same pattern - an hour or so on the boat to access a particular reef, and then two dives there, followed by lunch on the boat. The boat would then take us to a different reef, and we'd do a third dive, and then a mad rush to get back before the sun was two
fingers from the horizon; some local regulation. We'd signed up for a few extras - in fact, we signed up for all extras it seemed, seeing the bill - Enriched Air qualification ('NITROX') and trips to the Dolphin House and Elphinstone off-shore reefs, both of which included
ridiculously early starts. The Dolphin House reef somewhat unsurprisingly houses a resident school of dolphins. Access to this reef is commendably regulated to give the dolphins some space, meaning that the number of boats is limited, as is the diving area and the
time for the last dive set to 2pm. The dolphins had obviously cottoned on to this, and typically made their first appearance at 2:05pm. Still, we had some fantastic diving none the less. The Elphinstone is a demanding dive site, with potentially strong currents to contend
with, and with a significant proportion of it around the 30m limit, not a place for first timers. This is a good place to encounter hammer head sharks, but we were slightly too early in their season, so we were unlucky in that regard. Diving on Nitrox 33% I also found myself
focusing mainly on my computer at that depth, paranoid to stay above the 32m O2 partial pressure deck. Second dive at Elphinstone was out of this world though. A perfect drift dive along the seemingly endless wall reef with Nature's full range of Darwinian evolution on glorious display from Barracudas to Nudibranches.

Diving on nitrox appeals to the geek in me - hacking one's own gas mixture. It seems to be where recreational diving is heading, allowing as it does the no decompression limits to be extended such that they no longer run out before your gas does. Table calculations are
slightly more involved, but with a dive computer to handle that for you, most divers don't seem to bother anyway. With more oxygen in your mix, you also seem to settle down quicker into a calm breathing rate, and I found myself lasting longer on every nitrox tank.

The whole of the Red Sea is fringed with reefs, and to the Red Sea rim states, it represents a staggering income opportunity. There are signs that things are being managed in a responsible manner from the dive operators - fixed moorings to limit anchor damage for example, and the 'no gloves, no touch' rule. However, the level of on-going pollution is worrying. The locals appear to treat low tide as the bin man - simply leave all your rubbish on the beach, and the next morning it's gone. It may be gone from the beach, but it's evident on the reef. All boats have the 'short length of pipe' approach to toilet flush, and the general rule is don't flush if there's divers underneath, and bog roll goes in the bin, not the toilet.

But saying that, in the best moments, it's just magic - unsurpassed, perhaps only rivaled by Belize of the places I've dived.

RWC

This is rapidly turning the script on its head. England was supposed to be without hope, and the games before the All Blacks finally lifting the trophy a mere formality. Northern Hemisphere Rugby was comatose, out of contention.

Funny how things turn out on the field. England sends the Wallabies packing. France, having lost their opener to Argentina, dispatches the All Blacks after some genius turns from Freddie Michalak (and admittedly a forward pass, but still). The All Blacks have now been dismissed twice by France in the RWC. The 'most enigmatic side in world Rugby' indeed - the French really can step it up for the big games, where the All Blacks seem to choke. Much as I enjoy the All Blacks normal display of peerless Rugby superiority, I vocally backed the French. They wanted it more, and for the All Blacks, another agonising, soul-searching four years until the next chance.

The real revelation though are the Pumas. Argentina have long been the punch bag that everybody always beats, but quietly they've put together a quality side, with some truly world-class players that would feature in a tournament XV. Gus Pichot, the former Bristol scrum half, confidently claimed that Hernandez would pip Dan Carter to the All Blacks number 10 jersey if he'd been a New Zealander. Their pack is brutal.

And then there's England. Jonny's back, and although not quite back to his former glory, he just seems to tie up the loose ends and make the team work. Andy Gommersal has been the real eye opener though. Fast, precise service has made the backs start believing again. And then there's Paul Sackey - how come he hasn't had any air time before?

So, France-England. Argentina-South Africa. I wouldn't like to call either of the games in advance.

!

The 'weakest champions in rugby history' just kicked the Aussies into the high grass. Absolutely remarkable, defying all the odds. Bring on the All Blacks.

One

Great tune. Great band. Great guest vocalist.

Argentina!

Argentina just kicked Ireland out of the World Cup, winning their group against all odds. Hernandez is arguably one of the best all round players in the tournament.

My RWC sweep stakes ticket suddenly looks like a hot prospect. And with a date with Scotland in the quarters, it certainly looks like they're not done yet. England showed some back wheels and put up a spirited performance against Tonga. England's looking like the quality side they should be. Almost. Next game the Aussies - a somewhat different proposition, sure, but all bets are off in the knock-out stages.

RWC: England 44-22 Samoa

Finally England's looking like they can actually play some proper Rugby again. Argably the best game so far in the RWC, and England showed that they're not quite out yet.

Sarah's arrived in Font, and for the first time during my forced time off from climbing I actually feel a bit sorry for myself. Saying that, I'm actually symptom free, and I'm itching to get back in. But I'm forcing myself to wait, as tearing up the injury due to a premature return would be impossible to bear. Still, I've contracted some infection, so couldn't have gone, anyway.

At least I have a few days where I can store my clothes on the floor without risking repercussions.

This is Rock & Roll

Mourinho

Jose' Mourinho has left Chelsea by 'mutual consent'. A real shame. For someone who's relatively uninterested in football, Mourinho was to me a refreshing change from the usual dull fayre of inarticulate former players dressed in tracky bottoms. Superbly arrogant, unsmiling, but with the goods to back it up.

"I can honestly say I'm not one from the bottle. I am European Champion. I think I am special"

Awesome.

The Failing Continent

My brother gave me a copy of Aidan Hartley's book The Zanzibar Chest a couple of weeks back on a lightning visit back to Sweden. Mathias works at the Africa desk at SIDA, the Swedish government's development agency. I readily confess to knowing preciously little about Africa, its history, its wars. This book was a fascinating eye-opener. Hartley's book is part memoir, part history lesson, depicting his life as a front line journalist for Reuters, but also recounting the footsteps of Hartley's father, a pioneer from the dying days of the British Empire.

Primarily, the book details a couple of Africa's 'dirty little wars'; Somalia, Rwanda, Burundi - the unparalleled cruelty by which they were fought, and the West's ineptitude, or rather disinterest, to do anything about it. On the flip side, it is also a raucous, blokey story of the hypnotic draw of life in the dirt as a journalist, the camaraderie, the excesses, the hedonism - but also the staggering emotional cost of witnessing massacres and cruelty first-hand, as it happens.

Aidan's love for Africa shines through, as does his sadness and anger. It's not always clear if one should laugh or cry at the bungled ways that the West has meddled, and made things a million times worse. Especially telling is the Somalia wars, how they were run - pretty much for sport - by a bunch of qat-fuelled gangsters, and how the West played into their hands by pouring in aid, immediately, and routinely robbed and sold for profit to buy more arms by the war lords. The battle of Mogadishu, detailed in the also excellent Black Hawk Down is largely left out, as it's so well covered elsewhere. One is left with a feeling that Somalia is a failed state in the truest meaning of the word - it's never really had a state during its existence, and war is what they do, conquerors beware.

Hartley's own descent into the Heart of Darkness concludes in Rwanda, with a genocide of industrial proportions, that barely registered in the western media. Hundreds of thousands of Tutsis were slaughtered by crude means, dull machetes primarily it seems - a no mean feat, practically.

Gremolata

Some flavor combinations, no matter how outlandish, just seem to work. Lemon rind, flat leaf parsley, olive oil and garlic? What sort of kitchen chemist discovered that?

Grate the rind of 5 unwaxed lemons.
Finley chop a generous bunch of flat leaf parsley.
Crush a clove of garlic.
Mix it all up with a good tot of olive oil, and a few turns of the pepper and salt mills.

Drizzle over meat stews.

Ten routes that rocked my world

I have climbed thousands of routes over the years, but looking back, some stand out more than others. It's hard to define what makes a route memorable. It can be its situation, the partnership, the line, the achievement; many factors play in. Even more interesting, perhaps, is the variety that a decade of memorable routes will throw up. How do you compare a full-on multi-pitch route in the mountains with a 3-move boulder problem? You can't, of course, except perhaps by the elation felt on completing them. My most memorable climbing experiences seem to coincide with junctures in the climbing journey. Perhaps this is not so strange; the first lead at a new grade is likely to stick in the mind for the added degree of commitment or mental reserve required.

Right Angle Variation, Gurnard's Head, Cornwall, UK (VS 4b, 4c, 4b)

Still one of the best routes of its grade in the UK, and a fantastic example of real 'adventure' climbing. The situation is truly spectacular - a narrow zawn gashing into the coast line, and a long traverse in over frequently crashing waves into the apex, and then, from a hanging belay, straight up a corner on jugs. From the opposite side of the zawn one can get an amazing view of the whole route, and it looks gut-wrenchingly intimidating, at least five grades harder than it really is. The rock - Killas Slate - is of exceptional quality, and the gear is great apart from a 5 metre section of the traverse leading into the hanging stance. I climbed this route during my first season of climbing, and leading the last pitch was my first proper lead. I remember belaying Pete on the second pitch watching two seals playing in the waves beneath us. A gem of a route, utterly inescapable, totally memorable. I went back with Sarah many many years later, and even as a much more experienced climber, it's still a top route.

Valkyrie, The Roaches, Peak District, UK (VS 5a, 4c)

A benchmark VS, and a rite of passage for any aspiring Gritstone climber. This is probably the most gibbered-on route on grit. Climb the crack up to the obvious stance. Now, up, and then down the massive flake. Step out, and then - yes, then what? 'That' move. You look down between your legs and see nothing but air. You try to find anything to hold on to, and there's nothing. Your belayer first tries encouragement, and then ridicule. You're stuck, no matter how much beta you've had, say, tales of hidden foot holds. It's only one move, and it's all a matter of balance. Suddenly you decide to commit, and it's easy. You look back and wonder why that took you so long. Out on the nose, and some glorious break-to-breaking later you're taking it all in from the top, with an exceptional vantage point to mock your second. If you took care with the ropes, your second will essentially be on a top rope.

The Hunk, The Buttermilks, Bishop, California (V2)

Bouldering, US style. This boulder is a real high ball, higher than most parts of the grit stone edges in the Peak District. A huge lump of granite with a sequence of Barclaycards stuck onto it. The crux moves are close to the ground, but as you move higher and higher, and the holds only marginally improving, it's a real test of character. A real achievement for Sarah aswell, overcoming her natural aversion to soloing by slapping a 'bouldering' label onto it.

Ordinary Route, Old Man of Stoer, Northern Scotland (VS 5a, 4c, 4c, -)

James and I were doing a lightning road trip around Scotland, and on our last day ended up climbing the beautiful sea stack Old Man of Stoer. Everything was perfect that day - even the weather. We'd been midged to hell for a few days, so walking in along the coast with a gentle breeze was a great relief. There was one party ahead of us, but they were almost finished. First man has to swim across, unless you have a boat. We weren't particularly well prepared for this. I stripped to my boxers, and sum across with a rope. The water was rather refreshing, shall we say. Not a long swim by any means. We set up a tyrolean to pull our gear over before James swam over. We pulled the roped through a belay device to get the water out, and set off. The stack itself is a kind of hard sand stone, very much like grit, in fact, of exceptional quality. The route itself is never very taxing, but on a stack we soon found that route finding was surprisingly hard without a topo, and only a vague guide book description. Pulling over the top we found that a crowd had gathered on land, giving us a healthy round of applause in the sunshine. Getting off was a real trouser-filler. We abbed off some old bleached tat at the top, landing on a ledge at the top of the second pitch. From here, you have to solo out along a break to a cluster of dodgy pegs, attach yourself to some more bleached tat and ab off. Firstly, soft-iron pegs in a sea cliff is a bad idea in general. Secondly, once these pegs are 40 years old and wobbly to the touch, you get a niggly feeling in the stomach. Still, there were lots of them, and it's body-weight only. No problem.

Serenity Crack/Sons of Yesterday link-up, Yosemite Valley, California (5.10d)

This was (and still would be) right at the limit of my ability. Fortunately, I was climbing this with a very capable partner, Bruno Marks. Essentially, 9 full rope lengths of crackwork, thin fingers to flared fist and off-hand. Technical crux (supposedly) the end of the final pitch of Serenity, but for us Euroweenies, the first pitch of Sons was the meat of the day. Flared off hands, as the expression goes. The crack is too wide to get any jams to stick, and too flared to be able to lay off. Every move a struggle to hang on. At the time, the sun was starting to get hot, and the chalk was never quite enough to keep your hands dry. Higher up things eased, and some of the best crack climbing I've ever come across anywhere was found. Once we abbed off, both Bruno and I were totally spent. A long day.


Crescent Arete, Stanage Plantation, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b or V0)

Small, but perfectly formed, the Crescent Arete boulder lies next to the path up to the main edge itself. The Plantation boulder field is packed with classics of all grades, and Crescent Arete marked the culmination of a very personal journey. This problem has everything. Impeccable line, with a very balanced difficulty. A landing that's awkward enough to demand commitment. You need a good grasp of arete technique to get up this one. I'd stood beneath it so many times, always in my mind walking up to the edge, wandering if this is the day. Feeling the starting holds. Trying the first few easy moves, but always putting it off. A bit too warm, or too damp, I kept telling myself. I've seen good climbers flounder on it. Then, one solo-marathon weekend I'd stared off doing Pebble Arete, another highball nearby, taking a fall from the last move landing on my arse on the mat, and then topping out on the next attempt. I soloed another 50 routes that weekend, and packing it in for the day wandering up to the Plantation boulders to meet up with Sarah. She and a bunch of others were trying Crescent Arete. After watching for a bit I decided to have a go, with a bit of encouragement and beta from Airlie Anderson I suddenly found myself first grabbing the 'thank God' notch and soon after pulling over.

The Arrow, St Govan's Head, Pembroke, Wales (E1 5a)

For some reason, it took me a long while to get to grips with limestone. This is a bit ironic (in the Alanis Morrissette sense), seeing that there's hardly anything but limestone around Bristol where I live. I learnt to climb on Gritstone, and it's a very different beast. For a gritstoner, limestone feels sustained, and cams won't stick very well. On the other hand, the grade scale feels much more linear on limestone. Harder grades mean harder routes, not necessarily more dangerous. Pembroke is arguably one of the few noteworthy cragging venues in the UK, on a world scale. Ok, it's certainly not Ceuse, Yosemite or Akh Su Valley, but it's got a certain something for the discerning adventure climber. The Arrow is sometimes touted as a soft touch for the Extreme, and perhaps this is true. It sees its fair share of epics for this very reason. It's got a poorly protected start over an iffy landing, but once the gear starts appearing, it's a fantastic romp. Never desperate, but interest is sustained to the end. For the non-limestone afficionado, it's a race against the pump in your fore arms.

Cenotaph Corner, Dinas Cromlech, Llanberis Pass, North Wales (E1 5c)

This route represented a first for me. Many firsts, in fact. First E1. First 5c. First lob on trad gear. First, second, and third lobs, actually. Me, James, Pete and Mel were camping and climbing in the Pass one of my first seasons, and I defy anyone to walk up to the Cromlech and not want to climb this route. It's the most striking line in the UK. A perfect open-book corner, one big mother of a pitch. It just begs to be climbed. Of course, I wasn't good enough to climb it clean, and looking back, it should have been obvious, but I don't regret for a second giving it a good go. It's deceptively easy the first third, and the temptation is to absolutely stitch it up, which I did. Two thirds of the way up, as the climbing starts getting harder, and the arms a bit weary I found myself out of gear, and had to downclimb to retrieve some of the more unnecessary pieces I'd placed. This could only go one way, and after running it out a bit, the lob came. After a few more attempts, I was spent, and lowered off. James set off on my gear, and managed to complete it, and I seconded it cleanly. It's an amazing place though, so many ultra-classics compressed into a small area.

Nutcracker, Manure Pile Buttress, Yosemite Valley, California (5.9)

Oh, the irony (again) of the name - Manure Pile Buttress. This 'pile of shit' would have been the star attraction had it been situated anywhere else but at the foot of El Capitan, the most famous rock face in the world. Nutcracker is perhaps the most classic of the easy Valley classics. Five or six pitches of glorious granite, and an amazing day out for me and Sarah. The route surprised with a crux mantle that felt exposed. Pitch after pitch of perfect hands and run-out slabs makes for pretty much the ultimate punter's route.

Flying Buttress Direct, Stanage Popular End, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b. Or is it?)

The iconic grit stone route, soloed by players in trainers, fallen off by punters and on everyone's grit tick list. The grade is a joke, really - an anachronism from the days when men were men, but it's stuck. A gentle-angled, but unprotectable slab leads up to the huge roof. A good nut can be placed, and a moment's respite whilst contemplating what's coming next. The span required to reach the lip of the roof feels enormous, but there is a nak to it. What follows next is the wildest sequence on grit. At full stretch, you get the left hand's fingers in the break to about second joint; good hold really. As you match, you're committed - come off now, and it's the slab below. Now cut loose and latch a heel up out right at the same level as your hands. If you're tall, you may have been able to place a crucial cam from underneath the roof, but for us sub-6-footers, it's easier placing the cam from the outrageous, but reasonably secure position hooking at the lip. A wonderful sequence of further hooking and stretching between the breaks enables you to reach a standing position, and onwards to glory. Peerless.

Finale Groove, Boulder Ruckle, Swanage, UK (HVS 5b)

The Ruckle is one of the most intimidating places to climb in the UK. The long free-hanging abseil access. The tides. The unstable nature of the rock, especially the exits. One single, massive pitch, Dorset's response to Cenotaph Corner, and although not as iconic, it certainly packs a punch. On the day Sarah and I climbed it, the sea mists rolled in soon after I set off, and put a dense lid between us, making it impossible to communicate. The loneliness of the lead was very apparent. The route's sustained, but never desperate, and puts to shame the ferocious reputation of the crag. The open book corner starts out wide, and gradually narrows to the top. An uncharacteristically strong line for limestone. Sarah had a terrible time following, as she struggled with extracting some of my pieces, and me being unable to see or hear her, was unable to offer any assistance.

So there you have it. Ten routes that rocked my world. Or eleven, actually. I could as easily pick a different ten.

The Great British Toilet

I've been living in the UK for many years now, but certain things you never quite get used to. The design of bathrooms is one of them. For the love of Christ, who's idea was it to have bog doors swing inwards? Just picture it - you're desperate to go, having just come off your plane, so you rush to the toilet cubicle - all 1 square metre of it. You have your bag in one hand. You push the door open, and it crashes into the seat. You have to squeeze in through a gap that's about 9 inches wide, and then do the tip-toe dance around, desperately trying to get the door shut again. After mission completed, it's back to more of the same. Now, the puzzling bit is - why? The problem must be obvious to anyone who's ever been to the toilet, and the solution bleedingly obvious - so why do toilet doors still swing inwards? Anyway - you managed to get out. Now wash your hands. You have two taps - ice cold, and scalding hot. The rest of the world cottoned on to mixer taps a generation ago, but here they are only just creeping into the consciousness. In the home, the height of fashion is to have a luscious wall to wall carpet fitted in the bathroom. Let me repeat that: Carpet. In. The bathroom. In households that contains men. Moving on to the toilet itself - one would think it's a solved problem by now. In the rest of the western world, it is. In Sweden they usually come with two flush buttons, one for big jobs, and one for little jobs. They use very little water, and just work, quietly and efficiently. Here it is so different. The most common model has a sort of lever that you need to push down hard in a pivoting kind of action. This mechanism just about never works. You push down hard, and get rewarded by a slight gurgling noise, but no water. You wait for the lever to slowly return to its starting position, and try again. The same result. After pumping the lever half a dozen times, if you're lucky, the contraption will sort of flush - a long-lasting trickle consuming lots of water, yet strangely inefficient in terms of the job it was designed to do.

Fast goose

A Barnacle Goose has smashed the North Sea crossing record, previously held by Godzilla at 8 hours. The goose Barbow completed the Scotland to Norway in a mere 5 hours; an impressive feat indeed.

The green dilemma

So, we need to be green. CO-2 levels are hockey-sticking, global temperatures are rising, polar ice caps are melting as a consequence, and the Maldives are sinking. To combat this situation, we're installing Argon-filled double glazing units, which may cut heating bills with up to 15%. Every little bit helps, eh.

In terms of energy generation, the choices appear to be pretty simple, really. All the greens agree that we need to stop burning coal, oil and gas. So, let's build some wind farms! Eh, no. The same greens complain that they represent an eye sore in the environments where you can conceivably expect some windy conditions. Well, let's make etanol from rapeseed or sugar beet, and burn that - it's carbon neutral. Sorry. Taking over farmland to grow energy crop will impact global food prices and make starving people more hungry. Fair enough. Let's expand the civilian nuclear program and get super-clean, efficient, safe, zero-carbon energy capable of supporting the planet's energy needs for generations to come.

No. The same greens are opposed to nuclear power for reasons that are a bit muddy at best, and at worst based on outdated dogma with no basis in either science or fact. Even the godfather of green, Mr Gaia himself, James Lovelock advocates the use of nuclear power for the good of the planet, but the hippy green movement resists on dogmatic grounds.

Cuddle a polar bear. Embrace nuclear power. Save the planet. Stop the west's oil dependency. Install Argon windows.

Choose life.

Vision thing

It takes a lot to impress me on the web nowadays, but this one left me slack-jawed:

http://flickrvision.com

Exchange

So, the house saga is actually nearing its completion - exchange today, and Well Done Sarah for doing all the heavy lifting. We're looking at moving a week today. This process was started in October..really looking forward to move now.

Meanwhile, there's been a push at work to join the various social networks that abound, both to be seen to be active around the web, but also to - eh, find inspiration for our own projects. Facebook is actually very good at what it does - streets ahead of Myspace and a bit more jolly than LinkedIn.

Chris's Swedish stag do was survived by the stag, and a good time was had. The water was cold, but we all managed to swim to Ayres Rock and back. The stag himself swam to the other side - it was touch and go if he'd manage to return by his own steam, and he looked remarkably blue when he came out.

Me and Sarah are spending the weekend back down at the Hatch ranch for some more gardening duties in preparation for the Hatch-Ayres wedding real soon now. I'm still suffering with tennis elbow, this time on my left, and a dodgy right shoulder that harks back from a fall skiing in Sweden.

Stef's whatever's in the cupboard pasta

Start boiling the pasta.

Slosh a generous amount of olive oil in a high-sided fry pan and pun on medium heat.

Chop a shallot super-finely and chuck in. Crush a clove of garlic and pop that in, too.

Two heaped tea spoons of capers and a handful of greek-style black, pitted olives (not the horrible waxy type).

Grind some black pepper and salt, and add a heaped teaspoon of Sambal Oelek.

Stir and simmer for a few minutes until the oil takes on a uniform reddish tint from the Sambal.

Drain the pasta, and pour the sauce over and mix. Serve.

52 km

We spent the warmest day of the year so far cycling to Bath and Back, 52km in all, from the house to my office door and back again. It took less than an hour there, and slightly longer back, due to an en route pit stop. Amazingly, that is quicker than my commute on public transport. However, 50k in the saddle has left my derriere somewhat tender.. I might need a pair of padded shorts in order to get the most out of this.

Norddalsfjall

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Sarah and Krister on the climb up Norddalsfjäll

Acres of powder

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Sarah ripping it up

Heliskiing the Arctic

P4050107.JPG
Originally uploaded by hvs.

We look down the steep gully. A rock ridge curves down its right hand flank. Krister, our guide, points up and over to the left. It's been snowing heavily the last few days.

- That slab will go if you sneeze. Do not veer out left, no matter how tempting it seems. It's just too perfect. Follow the ridge closely.

He pauses.

- Stay on your skis.

We're heli-skiing way above the arctic circle in the north of Sweden. Riksgransen is a skier's ski resort. There's nothing here, really. A small hotel, a ski shop, half a dozen lifts. Oh, and vast amounts of mountains in every directions. The off-piste opportunities here are unsurpassed, and being where it is, it's a bit of a secret. Compared to your average ski resort, this place is different. The skill level on display is by far the highest I've ever come across. Most people wear avalanche trancievers, shovels and probes, and that's just at the bar. This is a place where people come to ski, not to pose or to party.

We've travelled here firstly by flying into Stockholm, and then spending 18 hours on the overnight train, covering pretty much two thirds of the length of Sweden. You can actually fly from Stockholm to Kiruna, which would dramatically cut down the travel time, but it proved impossible to get a flight that would connect in a sensible way with our return flight to London. The train jpurney proved a bit of a drag, and for next time, if we can't fly, it's worth the extra spend to get a slightly less shared cabin. Ours was designed for six, but due to some loop hole, apparently you can cram however many children you want under the age of sixteen. Sleeping on a moving train is hard enough as it is.

Still. We arrived safely at Riksgransen, tired, but with high expectations. Although I'm from Sweden and have skied all my life, I've actually not been here before. They have two metres of snow here, and the season is really only a month old. Yet, it rains. It rains above the arctic circle, at Easter. Our hearts sink as we lug our skis and bags into the reception. The resort is shut due to high winds. It's lunch time, and we can't check in until 3pm. We're informed that normally we wold have been able to go skiing, but alas..

We spot a guy that sports the coveted UIAGM badge - a qualified mountain guide. As qualifications go, that's as qualified as it gets, regardless of field. We chat to him about the options for the following day, and he suggests half a day of off pisting from the lifts, such that we can get a handle on the resort, the snow conditions, but also so that he can gauge our abilities for any further fun and games. There are some awesome off-piste runs you can either get to from the lift system or by short walks or slightly longer skinned ascents.

We meet up the next morning at 9am. It's been snowing all night. Winds are still high, and the resort's shut. Krister appears and suggest that we drive a bit and go for a short tour - skinning up a hillside for a few hours and then ski down. We load our skis into his van, and are greeted by his dog, Vanja. We drive for about 40 minutes towards Abisko, and park up next to the road. Both Sarah and I have alpine touring bindings on our skis, meaning that we can release the heel. By attaching 'skins', that is sticky-backed strips of fabric, underneath the skis, you can 'ski' uphill. You can slide the ski forward, but not backwards. It's sweaty work, but not outrageously demanding - more hill walking than running. It's still pretty windy, and our ascent is punctuated by icy streaks that are hard to negotiate on skins. Vanja, the dog, is loving it. The aim is to reach the summit ridge, traverse out left to reach a colouir that should provide for some good sport on the way down. About two thrids of the way up it becomes clear that the weather is taking a turn for the worse. The wind is picking up, and the visibility that was already ropey is not becoming any better. We lock our boots into skiing position, and our bindings into downhill mode and set off. Two hours uphill effort is dispatched in 15 minutes on the way down. Even if conditions are not ideal, you get carried away by the remoteness, the feeling of solitude on the mountain.

The heli-skiing operation here holds near mythical status amongst Scandinavian skiers. There are literally hundreds of skiable peaks that can be accessed by helicopter. I've held the ambition to heli ski here for as long as I can remember, ever since a relative told me how he spent three winters here, heli skiing his savings and degree away. Unfortunately, the weather is still stormy, with horizontal snow, and flying's out. To add insult to injury, the lift system's shut as we amble into the lobby at 9.
Ski patrol is busy blasting, trying to make the piste safe, and an hour later the lifts open. We ski with Krister who's plan it is to show us some of the accessible off-piste. However, the weather is shite, and our moods sink. Then, at coffee, a gap opens in the sky, and Krister suggests an 'amble' up Nordalsfjall, the huge mountain next door. It's too steep for skinning, and at some additional 500 meters of vertical, a significant climb in ski boots and skis on the back. We ski on the flat to the base of the mountain. The weather is actually looking up, comparatively speaking, but we're the only ones here. We dismount and strap our skis to our packs, and switch our boots to walking mode. We set off up a steep, icy streak of hard snow studded with rocks. Krister is breaking ground, and we cover some impressive scrambling ground, occasionally diverting around cornices. We reach the summit plateau sweaty, but awarded with some impressive views of the Swedish and Norwegian alpine range for the first time. We lock our boots and set our bindings in downhill mode. The descent is pure off-piste ecstasy. Half a foot of fresh powder on top of whatever fell yesterday and the day before. There are many possible ways down from here, ranging from the insanely steep to the more pedestrian. We choose the classic route 'The Saddle' which follows the shoulder of the mountain down to the col and then follow it down to the north. It's perfect in every way. Perfect snow conditions and visibility. The whole mountain to ourselves. Skiing does not get much better than this.

The next morning the weather looks so-so, but Krister looks hopeful that flying may happen. There's a bunch of Brits here with SnoWorks who have been sold three days of heli skiing in Lapland, 15 lifts guaranteed. So far they've had nil, and they're getting itchy feet. Sarah and I decide to explore the resort, but by the time we've got our skis out of the locker we run into Krister who's had to cancel the flying as the weather's rapidly taken a turn for the worse. Sarah and I ski for about half the day, but it's no fun in a gale with zero visibility. At 1pm we start to head back and by the time we reach the hotel the resort closes.

Thursday, and I wander to the lobby just before 9. Weather's looking, well - I can see the peaks around, which apparently is the litmus test. The board says that the lifts are due to open at 10, once blasting work after the night's heavy snow fall is complete. Krister is not there. I go back to the room, and gear up. Sarah goes to the lobby, and I go to the ski locker to pick up our skis. As I come back up, I meet Sarah in the corridor, heading the other way, informing me that we're on.

Jan, the German heli pilot is already busy getting the machine ready. There are two groups of us, the SnoWorks crew and us. We, as in me and Sarah, won't fill the helicopter, so the remainder of the places have been taken by staff from the nearby ski lodge, Meterorologen, including Patrik, the sommelier. Sarah's never been in a helicopter before, and doesn't like flying on the best of days. We load up, and take off. Sarah's in the front between the pilot and Krister, and Krister's dog Vanja at her feet. She's looking worried. Krister points up to the left at our first objective; a huge rocky crest of a mountain that doesn't look skiable. After a short flight we're deposited at the top of the mountain, and huddle kneeling as the helicopter takes off to pick up the other group. As we put our skis on, Krister turns around and says, jokingly, as he faces the impressive vista in front of us.

- What do you think poor people do today?

We all giggle nervously, considering the hefty chunk this game has taken out of our wallets.

What follows is impossible to do justice like this. Acres of untouched, perfect powder, shared between six people and a dog. This takes skiing to a different level, and there is no going back. Krister and Vanja sets off, and we all pick our own patch and follow him down the mountain. Questions like 'is it worth the cost' are meaningless at this moment in time. Five drops blend into a seamless whole of powder, and we return to base for a beer.

Come Friday, and the weather's crapped out again. After yesterday's high, it's an instant come-down seeing, well - nothing, really - out the window in the morning. We spend the morning honing our avalanche transceiver skills. We manage most mock burials within the set 15 mins, but with one 22-min blot on the protocol. In the afternoon we meet up with Will and James, two Brits here for a heli-weekend, minus the heli it would seem. In the blizzard, we skin up a green run on the piste, and amble down. Yet, as Sarah and I have settled down with a few drinks and some Bittorrent-TV, the skies clear, and two groups manage five lifts in the dying light.

Saturday, and the weather's marginally better. Heli seems out, so we decide to head to the Norwegian side for a touring ascent of a suitable peak. We take off with Krister and a friend of his, Anna. As we park up the car, the skies are blue, and an incredible display of fiords and peaks is on show. We don skins and wander up the 800 metres of vertical up Rombakk Stotte, to be rewarded by possibly the best off piste run of the whole week back down to the mini bus. We head back, and go for a beer in the Meteorologen lodge. Jan's just come back from taking the helicopter for its monthly service, and suddenly it's on again. One space left.. after some haggling, I graciously volunteer.

Skiing will not be the same again. Nor will the bank balance.

Toys out of pram

After beating Andorra, England manager threw his toys out of the pram at the press conference, railing against the harsh words he'd received as the worst performing England manager of recent times. Fighting against the windmills in the traditional England manager fashion.

Qualification chances now on par with the England Rugby Union squad retaining the World Cup.

In other news, Norn Oirlnd beat Sweden to top their group. Outrageous.

The beautiful game

After England's dismal performance against Israel, manager Steve McClaren came out with the following words of wisdom:

People in football who I respect have phoned me and said the only thing wrong with our performance on Saturday was that we didn't get a goal.

So now you know. To beat the other team, you need to score more goals than them. That's the bit missing.

Bureaucracy

Coming from Sweden, I know a thing or two about bureaucracy, you know like - banks actually work, trains run when they are supposed to run, tax returns are returned, houses can be bought and sold without a year of infinite pain, estate agents don't lie..

Almost all of the above is true. I just put in that bit about estate agents to make sure you're still with me.

Anyway, the UK has many good things about it, but a working bureaucracy it has not. Which is kind of funny, seeing that they invented the modern civil service. Still. One of the many incredibly painful things one has to suffer here is the annual renewal of the vehicle tax disk. To get this in perspective, in Sweden we also pay road tax - no surprises there I hear - and display a tax 'rectangle' that sits in the middle of the back reg plate. Every year you get this delivered in the post box automatically with a pay slip that you can pay over the counter or on line. The authorities know if you've had your vehicle MOTd, taxed and insured.

In the UK the process - until now - was somewhat more involved. Get the car MOTd on time. Fair enough. Get the car insured for the same time. Car insurance is almost as much pain as buying a house. Instead of having car insurance being a standard commodity of very little variation, the market is complex, enormous and with a huge variance. The thrifty can save quite a bit if prepared to spend a few days playing insurance companies off against eachother. Wait for insurance certificate to arrive by post, together with reams of paper. Wait for the DVLA to send you a notification that your vehicle needs to be taxed. Now the fun starts.

In any other western civilization, the licensing authority will know if a vehicle is taxed, insured and MOTd (inspected). In the UK, it's up to a post office clerk to judge. Only some post offices have the authority to issue tax disks. So you trundle down in your precious lunch hour instead of going to the gym, queue for ages, and get to deal with grumpy and incompetent spotty-faced yoof, alternatively sour-faced old hag with God complex behind the desk.

It shouldn't be that hard. Three pieces of paper that has to match, and be covering the same date range. But it is.

- Wrong insurance certificate, mate.

I look at my certificate. It's got the car reg. It's got the policy number. It's got my name on it. It's the right date range. It's paid for.

- The one you need looks exactly the same, but has a stylised signature by the insurance company chairman at the bottom.

I look over my shoulder at the long queue forming, and at my watch, now 45 minutes of queuing apparently wasted. I plead to the man's sense of good will. The form needed looks exactly the same - it's got all the details required, can't we just chalk this up as a mistake on my behalf, slap my wrist and don't do it again?

Apparently not.

So I go out to the car, swearing, to pick up the other bit of paper that I accidently left on the passenger seat, and join the back of the queue.

After 30 minutes of queuing I hand over the papers to the man again, who studiously examines the same papers - bar the insurance certificate. He looks satisfied. He rings the till.

- That'd be 180 ponds please. Will that be cash or cheque, sir?

I've already got my VISA card half way out of the wallet. Somehow, I'd failed to recall that the post office (at the time) was a credit-card free zone.

- There's a cash point just around the corner, sir. You can just about see it through the window, just beyond the end of the queue.

Anyway, those were the days.

Today, I ordered - and paid for - my new tax disk on-line. Long live the DVLA who finally entered the modern era.

Vigeland Sculpture Park

IMGP0973
Originally uploaded by hvs.

We walked around the fascinating Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. Hundreds of sculptures in cast bronze and granite depict primarily naked humans in all shapes and forms, culminating in a huge monolith made up of human forms. The theme is the 'circle of life', and the park is the frequent scene of both protests and frat boy pranks. Recently, some religious organisation walked around the park covering up all the 'nakedness' in a protest against the growing sexualisation of society. Curious in itself, given that the park is nearly 100 years old..

One of the smaller bronze casts of a boy is often stolen, apparently.

And, no, the photo is not upside down.

Will and Hilde

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Will and Hilde got married in the lovely Maridalen Kirke just outside Oslo.

Water on Mars

An enormous amount of water ice has been discovered on Mars. Let the terraforming begin.

England-France

So this strange six-nations is continuing apace. Wales lost to Italy after some refereeing confusion in the dying seconds of the game. If it wasn't for if, eh. The Welsh may carp, but the stronger side won. Had anyone guessed before hand that Wales would be taking the wooden spoon, most would have laughed out loud. Good for Italy, and good for world Rugby. After the shoeing that England suffered in the hands of the Irish last round, no one expected England to be able to stand up to the French. Much had been made in the press of the return of 35yo Mike Catt to the team, and to the captaincy. Fair to say he shut up his critics after an emphatic win at Twickenham. Moreover, after a few years of dysfunctional play at number 10, suddenly Ashton's got three world-class players to choose from, given the performances of youngsters Flood and Geraghty. The forwards that got so beat up at Croke Park suddenly showed some grit and determination to totally dominate the field.

Is England back in time for the World Cup?

Leif G W Persson

Continuing my mission of trawling through the Swedish canon of crime writing on my daily commute, I've just finished Leif G W Persson's "Mellan Sommarens Langtan och Vinterns Kold" - approximately "Between the longing of summer and the mid-winter cold", a story that starts with the apparent suicide of an American freelance journalist, but eventually tells the story about the murder of the Swedish prime minister. Persson, like his friend Jan Guillou, writes about real events and real people with a paper thin disguise which makes it amusing for the reader that is aware of the comings and goings in Swedish politics. This book paints a very bleak picture of the Swedish police, and especially its security forces. Persson is a professor in criminology and a renowned expert on crime and the police, which makes it even more disturbing. In Persson's Sweden, the police is rife with racism, misogyny and incompetence. The book mirrors the very real murder of prime minister Olof Palme, complete with the incomprehensible obsession with Kurdish separatists that followed, which any thinking individual found ludicrous at the time. In Persson's novel the prime minister was killed by a psychopath heading up the external operations of the secret police.

I imagine that Persson's description of the daily grind and jargon of the police is fairly authentic, but it left a bitter aftertaste. The bad and incompetent float to the top, and the capable people look for early retirement.

Same as everywhere else, I guess.

Scarpa Spirit 3

Scarpa Spirit 3
Originally uploaded by hvs.

My new Scarpa Spirit 3 ski-touring boots. They have insets for Dynafit bindings (see the little metal indents at the toe), and a toggle allowing the foot to bend. Complete with thermo-fitted inners, they ski really well downhill and climb well uphill.

Skiing in the land that music forgot

Leysin, Switzerland, off-pisting with ISM. No snow when we arrived, and our hearts sank. We finally found the chalet and got to bed around midnight. Sunday morning and the situation looks no better with a gentle rainfall. We walk into town to pick up some touring boots - they're hard to come by in the UK, and we walk out with two pairs of Scarpas and a lighter bank balance. Rental skis with Diamirs, skins and ski crampons complete the kit list, and now it's started snowing - a lot. With zero visibility and half the day gone, we retreat to the chalet and in the evening we meet up with the rest of the people on this jolly and Steve Jones, our main guide. A diverse, but easy-going crowd. John A we already know from Bristol. A couple, Suzi and Jon, from Gloucestershire. Gordon, a pilot with BA. Robin, a (former) partner with one of the big accountancy firms, on a year's (!) gardening leave before taking up a position with another big accountancy firm. Steve's been living here guiding for 25 years. He looks the part - a wizened mountain man.

When we wake up the next morning, the Alps are covered with a foot and a half of fresh powder. We get introduced to Alex, a Swiss ski instructor, who's job it is to assess and tutor our powder skills. He's a very enthusiastic fellow with that polished style that only ski instructors have. We have a fun day in the fluffy powder, including a sobering session in the avalanche park where we try our hands at locating 'victims' using our beacons. It's difficult, and we don't manage to find any within the stipulated 15 minutes. The bell goes, signalling time's out - for the victims. Effective beacon search requires practice.

The next day Steve has to shoot off to London for a funeral, so we're left in the hands of another Swiss guide, Yvon, for the next few days. Yvon is first and foremost a guide - he takes people on remote and spectacular mountain days, rather than teaching skiing - eventhough he is is a qualified ski instructor.

"I can either ski powder off piste every day, or teach kids the snowplough" he said, and I can't say I disagree.

Yvon takes us to neighbouring Diablreret and we head off on some proper drops in a full on tempo. Excellent skiing indeed. We finish off with a long powdery run through the trees into the village of Villars before heading back. Next morning sees warmer temperatures, and Yvon takes us on our first ski climb to the summit of Tour de Famelon, 2137m. I've never used climbing skins before, but I have done lots of x-country skiing in my youth, so I'm familiar with free heel skiing. It's a strangely hypnotic experience, and we've set off in a moderate tempo with Yvon breaking trail. It's steady, and sweaty, work without being as aerobically taxing as say running. We climb the 500-odd metres in about 1.5 hours. There are some significant skills and fitness differentials within the group. Add to that a factor 4 avalanche danger, Yvon chose the easiest possible descent route. We wound our way back down into the valley in complete alpine splendor and solitude. Reality hit us with a bang when we're about to head for a Vin Chaude and look up towards where we'd started our climb - one side had totally disappeared in a slab avalanche - a safe distance away from our tracks, but still. Yvon says with a wry smile that he'd seen it go but thought he'd better not mention it until we got back down.

During the night I appear to have contracted some stomach nasty, and sadly skiing is over for me for this time. Thursday saw more rain, and I didn't miss much by all accounts. Today, Friday, Steve's taken the group to Diableret for another skinning ascent.

And what is it about the Swiss and the poodle-haired 80s krautrock heard at every lift station?

So, in summary, ISM is cool. Conditions started out great, but deteriorated into slush and rain. Ski touring is definitely something I'd like to do lots more of. Avalanche beacons require lots of training. Diahorrea and puking go poorly with skiing.

Warney

I've talked a bit about Shane Warne, the world's best spin bowler in the past on this blog. Here's the evidence:

Swimming

Due to my weekends now being planned out until the beginning of the summer, I've had to abandon my Saturday front-crawl clinic at the Bristol Uni pool. I fully accept that I will never be a great swimmer, but the lessons have been most excellent, and I wish I could carry on. I got to a point where I can actually swim from one end of the pool to the other - and breathe. Several things have struck me in this endeavor. Firstly, learning a complex physical skill is actually quite hard as an adult, which has opened my eyes and I feel humility and respect towards the number of friends I've dragged up and down the ski slopes over the years with claims that it's really quite straight-forward, honestly. Secondly, it's effing hard work, almost certainly as a consequence of my rubbish technique. One lap in the pool feels harder than a 10k run - I don't seem to be able to swim in a relaxed fashion.

A new gym has opened very close to work, with the added bonus of a swimming pool. It's only 20m, but that's perfect for me to paddle up and down at lunch times trying to put to practice the lessons I've had.

Weekends

Weekends are too short to make up for the suffering that is the working week. Spending the last few nights on an air mattress in near arctic conditions, my dreams were remixing the Arn Saga - which has been my commute companion for the last few weeks - and several of the angst-ridden projects running at work. Most peculiar.

The Truth

We were driving up the motor way towards Leicester when Sarah suddenly exclaims:

- I love the fact that you're Swedish. It's a challenge compared to an ordinary boyfriend.

What can you say to follow that?

Friday

It's Friday again.

On the news this morning there was the astonishing revelation that the secret to staying fit and healthy is to eat a healthy diet, do exercise, cut down on booze and fags. If nothing else helps, cosmetic surgery. A new magazine has been launched to that effect. Another magazine is to be launched based on the observation that bears do indeed shit in the woods. Plans are afoot for the one-legged duck swims in circles edition.

Elsewhere it was revealed that the UK is the worst country (just after the US) in the western world for children to grow up. Sweden came in second after Belgium of all places.

Ski trip is drawing closer. Snow situation still iffy, but plenty of 4k peaks available from where we're based. Can't wait.

Gold

If you're of a certain age, you may remember the seminal New Romantics Spandau Ballet. All frilly sleeves and gold jackets. Moves are afoot to make their perhaps most loved creation, Gold, be the new National Anthem for the UK.

If you're a UK resident, support the petition here.

Valentine

So, Valentine's Day - the height of imported commercialism. Just Say No. Sarah and I are going down the wall for a spot of climbing, hopefully reaping the benefits of everybody else being out, thus having the wall to ourselves.

Had some good friends over for dinner last night, and W told a story from the front line of the anesthetist's working day. A colleague had been trying in vain to give a pregnant woman an epidural, but she was thrashing about making the procedure dangerous.

- Now, if you don't hold still, I might miss your spine and stab the needle in the baby's eye.

She held very still after that.

House of Cards

How's this for freaky coincidences - spotted the 'House of Cards' box set on a friend's book shelf the other day and borrowed it. Been enjoying it over the last few evenings, and then today it's reported that Ian Richardson has passed avay suddenly.

House of Cards is a masterful display of Machiavellian cunning and political scheming of the highest order. Ian Richardson is (was) superb as Francis Urquhart, Tory Chief Whip, in the post-thatcher years. Used to shady back-room deals, he decides to take on the PM by fair means or foul. Mainly foul. He is an obviously evil man, but with the weird charm and charisma of a Greg House or Richard III. What he doesn't know about wielding power is not worth knowing.

Yet another outstanding BBC production.

Strength, power, power-endurance and endurance

It's difficult to train for all-round climbing, as the demands are sometimes conflicting. Become stronger, and you'll lose your endurance. Train endurance and you'll end up weaker. But the sticking point is almost certainly 'power-endurance' - that is, being able to do moves repeatedly just under your max without pumping out. The hardest boulder problems I've done are aeons harder than anything I've ever encountered on a route. There are of course other components playing into this - a long trad background has lead to an aversion to anything but onsighting, and I've had to actively repurpose my brain to a sport-climbing mentality. But I've never attempted anything harder than UK Tech 6a on a route, say about V1 or V2, yet bouldered up to V6. That's an astronomical difference, and I'm not even a boulderer.

I can only conclude that I probably have sufficient power, but lousy power endurance. Or, somewhat less palatable, maybe I'm simply too scared to climb to my limit on trad, and too lazy to work sport routes?

Jonny come lately

The Six Nations' Rugby Tournament is upon us again, and no one expects England to achieve much. English Rugby is in turmoil with the manager being forced to resign after a disastrous result since - well, since the last World Cup, let's be fair. A host of world class players retired, a feud broke out with the club game - and God's gift to Rugby, World Cup winner Jonny Wilkinson has been injured for three whole years. Until now. To many's surprise, Jonny is actually fit, and even more surprising, new coach Brian Ashton named Jonny in the starting XV in the opener vs Scotland. Most pundits were pouring scorn over Aston for putting his faith in someone who hasn't really played at all for three whole years.

However, class is something that transcends form, and Jonny is a real class act. Now, three years ago you would have expected England to pile 50 points on Scotland. This year the bets were even. To an astounded sold out Twickenham it must have seemed like a time warp; like the three last years never happened. Golden boy was on fire, just like that day some three years ago in Australia. Sure, the opposition was weaker yesterday, and harder games are yet to come, but to claim Man of the Match after three years' absence is nothing short of staggering.

It's also a damning indictment of the state of English Rugby that it couldn't produce a credible contender at number 10 in the mean time.

Twickenham gave Jonny a well-deserved standing ovation as he left the field.

TFI Friday

Weekend starts here! Or, weekend starts after another five hours of project meetings. We're very Agile in our approach to project management. Heading for sunny Twyford this weekend to meet up with the usual suspects. The following exchange took place:

Chris: Who's coming for a run with me on Saturday morning?

Cath responds with:

Plan for weekend (and yes it does resemble a military operation):

Fri-

Nana arrives after work (with invitations, car keys and make up bag!!)

Nana and Cath make invites, Dave cooks dinner

Chris arrives on last train from London (Cath and Dave will likely be in bed but will leave back door open - go thru gate at side of house assuming Nana doesn't want to stay up)

Sat -

6am Dave leaves for work

8am Cath to stables

Nana and Chris amuse themselves/make invites (Nana do you want me to get some cream paper so you can use our computer to do the insides??)

Chris goes for run

14:30 - Dave back from work Cath back from stables

Sarah and Stef arrive hopefully before

16:00 Eng v Scotland (Super 12 if Eng game is appalling)

18:00 Cath to stables to put horses to bed and collect take away on way back (mainly because I can't see how I'm going to fit shopping for food in!)

Sun -

6am Dave leaves for work

8am - Cath to stables (to ride horse no1 and muck out)

10am - Cath back from stables

10:30am - Nana, Sarah and Cath appointment with dressmaker (she has confirmed she can see us just waiting to hear back from her re time)

11:30am - Sarah and Cath to stables to ride other 2 horses

13:00 Juniors arrive

13:30 - Sunday lunch at Green Man

14:30 - Dave back from work

15:00 - depart for various homes (or stay to watch Ire v Wales)

16:00 - Dave takes Nix and Shane to Heathrow

Simple really!!!

Let me know if any comments etc

Chris: I'd really hoped for more of a structured weekend.

Sierra Nevada

One of our great discoveries when we were dirtbagging it in Bishop was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. A just reward after a day on the highballs of the Buttermilks. If you can put aside all preconceptions you might have about American beers and in-canoe love making, SNPA is actually a very nice tipple.

To my surprise they've started selling it in Tesco of all places! So, from one beer-lover to another, I hereby raise a Californian micro brew to your health, and invite you to try the same next time you pick up your groceries at the supermarket.

Wishful Vista

Micro$oft have just released Vista, the latest incarnation of Windows. Bill says this is the most secure OS in the world.

If I was a gambling man, I'd wager that he'll be proved wrong within a remarkably short time.

God's Own Yorkshire

Went to Yorkshire to visit Bruno and Jenny last weekend and managed to pick the first sunny weekend since early December. Had a glorious day out at the Slipstones on the North Yorks Moors. Set in truly picturesque surroundings, it's a sort of miniature version of Stanage, but without the crowds and polish. A grit boulderer's paradise. The quality of the rock is nothing short of spectacular in its roughness - as my ragged tips still bear witness to. God's own rock indeed. Haven't been bouldering on real rock since November '05 back in Bishop and gradewise didn't get anywhere near, unsurprisingly. It was inspiring though, rattling through V2s and 3s and trying a few harder ones together with a spectacularly strong and enthusiastic team.

On Saturday night we reconvened to Simon and Pip's for a surprise birthday party for Simon. Lots of food (and in Bruno's case, drink) was consumed, and the party soon deteriorated into a set of mad physical challenges, like holding front levers etc, culminating in an olives vs jelly babies first to finish 400 grams eating comp between John and Stu. Olives won, but kudos to jellies for not throwing up.

Room 212

My good friend Henk has started an interesting venture in Bristol, a grass-roots community art gallery that goes under the name Room 212. He moved house a while back, and part of the purchase was a commercial property at the front of the house, a small room with a big glass window, the sort of space used by thousands of little sandwich bars and brik-a-brak shops around the UK. Without any sort of facilities, it would be hard to make use of this space as an office without major work, and due to the size, it'd been unlikely to bring much rental income.

Instead he started a community gallery. If you're an artist, craftsman or pretty much any sort of creative, you can hire Room 212 for 15 pounds a week, or 5% of your sales income whichever is the larger sum. You can display your wares and choose if you want to staff your exhibition or just use the shop front window as a display. It has proved extraordinarily successful - the place is now fully booked for a year, and has created a real buzz. Gallery space is in a real short supply unless you have the wonga to spend, and walking past Room 212 is always exiting as you never know exactly what to expect.

If you're in the Bishopston area of Bristol, it's well worth seeking out.

2012

Today there are 2012 days until the start of the London 2012 Olympic Games, and so far they're UKP 800m over budget. The Olympic bid is largely funded by London council tax payers and lottery grants.

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Winter

Winter is coming, apparently. Sweden's finally blanketed in snow, and the suggestion is that so will the UK. Hopefully, this should also mean some more snow for the starved Alps just in time for our Leysin trip. Sarah and I have also booked a trip to Riksgränsen above the arctic circle, at the only point where Sweden, Norway and Finland share a border. Bit of an off-pister's Mecca. We're actually taking the train up - 28 hours! Doing our bit for limiting the carbon emissions. You can normally ski there until mid-summer, but who knows what the out-of-whack globally warmed winter will bring.

Ping me

Jag har placerat min blogg i
England på bloggkartan.se


So there.

Added SQL

A friend sent me this picture.. it's sadly appropriate for the work I'm currently frantically trying to finish, but if you don't get the joke, consider yourself fortunate for living a more rewarding life at the moment.

Stormy weather

It's windy over Blighty today. The roof of the building opposite the office was ripped off and deposited below, on top of a 7-series BMW. God's punishment for cutting someone up and driving like a c*ck, no doubt. Jokes aside, apparently four people have perished as a consequence, the BBC reports.

The other storm brewing is the Big Brother racist row. Big Brother is the original, and also the most base, reality TV show. This is apparently a 'celebrity' edition where various c-listers vie for their 15 minutes of renewed fame. Allegedly, this pretty Bollywood starlet is being subjected to bullying with racial overtones. There are protests in India, motions in Parliament, uproar in the media, and a love-fest in Channel 4's board room.

The woman in the centre of this row, a Ms Jade Goody, is by all accounts from the shallow end of the gene pool. A true product of the reality show generation: no brains, no education, no prospects, no hope yet still somehow a 'celebrity' rarely out of the gutter press. She's said to have been shouting, screaming, and cussing at Ms Shilpa Shetty, resorting to racial slurs.

A clear example of how racism and stupidity are intimately related, sure, but this almost certainly springs from jealousy - one woman taking instant dislike to another that happens to be more attractive, younger, smarter and more successful.

Unbeknown to Ms Goody, she's now been dropped from her post as champion for a UK-wide anti-bullying charity. Big Brother main sponsor, Carphone Warehouse, have retracted their support from the show. Politicians from all ends of the political spectrum are chipping in.

Cure for cancer

A small molecule has been discovered to have amazing properties when it comes to fight a number of disparate cancers in the body. However, none of the big pharmaceuticals seem interested in picking it up as it's not patented, so their potential profits would be limited.

I love the unfettered profiteering face of unashamed capitalism.

Housing woes

We've been trying to move house since we got back to the UK. As you're no doubt aware, the process of selling and buying a house in England is so painfully arcane, financially inefficient and just generally a pain in the proverbial that on average one ages at least a decade as a consequence. First we put our house up for sale (I say 'we', but Sarah's been running the process with a steady hand. As those of you that know her probably can imagine), and lo and behold, someone put in an offer we decided to run with. 'We' found a nice 3-bed flat in a popular location in town which would shave Sarah's commute down to a 5 minute stroll, and make mine more manageable in terms of the (admittedly woeful) bus connections. The flat looked to be in immaculate repair, and against better judgment we started hearing words like 'new roof', 'developed by company, not cowboys out for a big buck', etc. The only problem was - the bathroom had a bidet. I was about to say 'estate agents are liars', but why state the obvious? We made an offer, including the removal of the bidet, which eventually was accepted.

Now the fun started. Get a solicitor. Get a mortgage. Endless, pointless, costly conveyancing searches. Ok, basement flat, but no record of any damp proofing after a complete refurb? Odd. An acquaintance who lives nearby quips at a Christmas party that something definitely had gone wrong with the flat as several different contractors had been in and out of the flat some six months ago to what appeared to amount to redoing work previously done. Sarah managed to dig out who'd done the work, the mercurial 'Bob'. Yes, the builder really was called Bob. Bob explains that he was called in to tidy up the mess that had been left in the wake of the set of cowboys that had messed up the flat completely with the shoddiest workmanship he'd ever encountered in his professional career. Whatever Bob did he uncovered something serious, including a nail through a gas main. The whole flat had to be rewired. There had been no damp work, just a floating wooden floor with carpet on top. The floor had just rotted away. He'd done his best, but his brief had not included a proper damp course, as this had been deemed too expensive. Instead, he tanked the flat - floors and walls - with asphalt, and dry lined it with plaster board and painted. Now, probably waterproof, but hardly breathable as it were, and not recognised as a proper damp course. He normally gives a life time guarantee on his workmanship, but was not prepared to do so in this case due to the state of the place.

When our survey came to the conclusion that the flat was overvalued to the tune of £20k, we decided to cut our losses and walk away.

So instead, we put a offer in on something completely different, and are now looking forward to restarting the whole procedure.

Bilingualilsm halts the onset of dementia

Canadian researchers report that life long bilingualism delays the onset of dementia. That's extraordinary, but not the first time that bilingualism has been linked to physical changes in the brain's structure. It was reported some time back that true bilinguals have notably denser brain matter in certain areas, a property shared with long-time London cabbies, of all things - this seems like a phenomenon ripe for investigation by the Freakonomics team.

Bilingualism is different from learning another language as an adult, regardless of level of fluency. Only languages learnt in the process of learning speech itself will contribute to the physical changes in the brain.

Toccata & Fugue

In the hell that is patching up other people's code mess, I picked up my iPod to stop people interrupting me. You look busier with head phones on. When coding, or especially when writing, I find that classical music works best - no lyrics to distract you. Although saying that, I was frequently giggled at during my PhD write up for singing along to Mozart's Requiem. Nothing like a good death mass in Latin to get you going in the morning. But I digress. My iPod selected the quite astonishing organ piece Toccata & Fugue in D minor from Bach. If you've never heard it, if you're of a certain age it will still sound strangely familiar and eerily modern. I've lost count how many long-haired guitar heroes of the last few decades that unashamedly ripped off this piece - the complex scales seem as if they'd been specifically composed to fit in the hands of a young Ed Van Halen, Joe Satriani or Steve Vai. Of course Bach had altogether a more pious audience in mind, but still, the piece seems irresistible to rock musicians. Jon Lord, on the Hammond organ, used to perform pretty much the whole thing on stage with Deep Purple, and I keep expecting the drums to kick in.

Nothing new under the sun.

Bullet proof suit

Some guy has made a 'bear proof suit' which has evolved into a bullet-proof exoskeleton. Pretty amusing demo..

How to cut your commute in half

I already knew this, of course, but decided to try it out this morning. I ran to the station, in a leisurely pace. Bit of a pain running with a ruck sack, and quite hard to motivate yourself doing exercise at the crack of dawn, but I essentially halved my time, compared with the bus. Luckily, it wasn't raining. I'll probably stick to the bus those quintessentially British days.

Ode to the Campus Board

The campus board must rank as the most efficient workout form possible when it comes to developing upper body strength. A 10-minute workout on the board will feel like an hour in the gym the following morning. For those unfamiliar with the device, it's an angled board suspended about six feet above ground with nine horizontal rungs, about an inch and a half wide, about 10-12 inches apart. A number of different exercises are possible, the most basic being pulling up from one rung to the next, like climbing (the back of) a ladder without using your feet, first up and then back down again. The next step is to start missing rungs out, for example the 1-3-5: from rung 1, pull up to rung 3 with one hand, and then to rung 5 with the next. Taken to its logical extreme, we get the 1-5-9, a digit combination that has a near mythical meaning to climbers. But the real win on the board is to move from rung to rung with both hands simultaneously, especially if this is done both on the way up and down again. This is considered to be the most efficient recruitment training known. Recruitment is one component of the strength/power equation, the number of muscle fibres that the brain and nervous system can recruit to do the work. The higher recruitment, the more 'explosive' your muscles are. Power is strength developed per time unit, so to increase your power you can either increase your strength, or decrease the time it takes for your body to 'switch it on'. The campus board can work both aspects.

The device was invented by German superstar climber Wolfgang Gullich as a specific training method for the preparation of the route Action Directe, the world's first grade F9a in the Frankenjura. It's basically a big campus board, involving 6-foot footless spans between single-digit pockets. When he started out he couldn't even hang the mono pockets, let alone move between them.

As a training device, the campus board has quite a high barrier of entry - few people can do the first joint pull ups that's needed even for the most basic laddering. There are ways around this by for example starting out supported by a bungy cord or by using one foot initially to take some of the load. More seriously, due to the intensity of the training, it's very easy to get injured, especially in elbows and shoulders.

Be good, and if you can't be good, be strong.

Public Transport

UK public transport is a joke. A sad excuse for a joke.

I live in Bristol, but work in Bath. Bath is about 10 miles away, a nice little 10 minute train journey away. Bristol Temple Meads is probably the largest, busiest train hub in the west of England. I have approximately 3 miles from my house to the station. This morning, my aim was to get to work a tad earlier so that Sarah and I would have time to go for a run before heading out for a birthday meal tonight. I step out at 8, missing my preferred bus number 73 by a whisker, but getting on the 75 that arrived just after. This means I have to change in town, but no biggie. However, as we get into town we have caught up with the 73, and as I step off I can simply step on the 73 I missed. Great! At this rate I'll easily make the 8.45 train, possibly even an earlier one. The 73 sets off, but halts again after about three stops, and the driver leaves. Evidently the end of his shift. Kind of interesting time to do a driver swap, slap bang in the middle of rush hour on a bus bound for the station, but hey. We wait. No new driver. After 15 minutes a manager bod from the bus company steps on, asking if anyone's seen a driver. He tries to phone his boss, but gets no response. In the end, he has to call for a replacement bus complete with driver, and we swap buses. Ok, so I'm now looking at the 9am Paddington train. Not too bad - this is my normal train - but that's the end of my plans of getting to work early. Two stops later the fattest, most obese, tramp-like person steps on, and I can feel the fumes of bodily odours and last night's White Lighting on his breath the moment he enters. Please, please, please sit somewhere else, I plead silently to myself. He resolutely plonks himself next to me. He takes up two thirds of the seat I'm on, and that's still with one arse cheek hanging over the edge. The stench makes my tears water, and I disappear further into my audio book.

When we finally arrive at the station, it's 9.02 and the London train has left. I leg it to try to catch the Portsmouth train due at 9.04 and it just pulls in as I battle the stream of people coming the wrong way down the stairs and get on. Not too bad, still. When I look up after a bit my watch says 9.09 and the display outside says that the train is delayed. Strange. I step off and asks a member of staff what's going on.

"We have no driver"

Genius. No driver. I guess the train just rolled in on its own? I've lost my patience now, and stomp off in a huff. Next viable train leaves from platform 1 (other side of the station) at 9.22, and I trek over there. Delayed, expected 9.28. Fecking feck. Ok, what's next - the 9.30 Paddington service, at platform 13. Ho hum, back the other way.

So, I finally made it into work at 9.46, having travelled less than 15 miles in nearly two hours.

The public transport system is badly broken.

Chris

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Chris doing a running dive to catch a frisbee in Spain last year.

Tubthumping

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

The girls in the tub.

Ice

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Just to show the extent of the Swedish winter this year, there was some ice.

Chris, Cat

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Chris doing his bit to empathise with Cat.

Morrissey

The Beeb is reporting that talks are in progress to get Morrissey to represent the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest.

That's...I'm speechless. Just imagine - Jimi Hendrix doing the Star Spangled Banner. Eh.. or The Sex Pistols doing God Save the Queen. Erm, ok, Monty Python doing a take on the last days in the life of Jesus? No? Kraftwerk taking on Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart?

More silly cover versions on a post card, please.

Anyway - Morrissey is probably the most unlikely candidate for Eurovision glam. Now, I've had this blog post on The Smiths on the back burner for ages, ever since my friend Chris asked what the fcuking point was about The Smiths and Morrissey.

One day I will write that blog.

Best of the Box

Since the discovery of the new, eh, time shifting capabilities of certain digital TV channels, I've gradually worked my way through various TV series that I otherwise wouldn't have had the attention span to see. Here are my top-5:

1. The West Wing - pure magic, crisp writing, wonderful story lines, and a window into what the world might look like with an educated Renaissance man in the White House instead of the current moron.
2. House MD - proper medical drama, that is a drama about medicine, rather than about relationships between medics. It's said that all real doctors secretly want to be Greg House, a genius that hates patients but loves medicine. Brit comedian Hugh Laurie in his finest role to date. Oh, the put-downs..
3. Scrubs - a somewhat lighter take on the hospital drama. Recent series sprinkled with references to House for the eagle-eyed. Very funny, with the occasional more serious moment. And Dr Cox's put-downs are almost as acerbic as Greg House's..
   
4. Gray's Anatomy - yet another medical drama. A more grown-up version of Scrubs, perhaps. Less medicine, more bonking.
   
5. Boston Legal - has some of the best characters ever in a TV series. The first two series were magic, but later ones are starting to suffer from the Ally McBeal syndrome - it's just getting too weird.
   

Honorary mentions go to The Unit, Spooks and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.

On a similar note, got given both series of This Life on DVD for Christmas. It's brilliant. A great snapshot of the hedonistic excesses of the 90s.

Witness the Fitness

Chris Sharma, wunderkind, arguably the best climber on the planet, dispatching his aptly named problem 'Witness the Fitness'

Snow!

After an abysmal start to the winter season, snow is now finally falling over the Alps. We have a week's skiing booked for the end of Feb so a bit of base is always good.

Anyway, had a good time in Sweden over New Years, with plenty of good food from our most excellent chef team, a staggering array of drinks, saunas and dips in 0-degree Baltic waters with great friends. Trees were chopped down, fireworks set off and poker was played especially well by Sarah. She has the right mindset to become a great player if she wanted to - the right blend of discipline, analytical ability and instinct.

There was very little ice this year, in fact the least ice I've ever seen over Christmas as far as I can remember back. We still had to break through a little bit, but it pretty much vanished as the days went by.

Cath, Chris

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Looking merry on New Years Eve

Da Brits

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Talloren winter sunset

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Not much snow this winter, but some amazing sunsets.

Zoe Santa

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

My niece, Zoe, doing the Santa thing