Wednesday, February 28, 2007

You jam your toe into a pocket

I was looking through threadbare shirts in a charity shop when I became aware of a presence behind me. I turned around to see a small man looking at me. He had a funny half-smile and was holding t-shirts on old wire hangers. He waited politely until I had fully turned to face him.

Then he started blinking rapidly. "Hello," he said, eventually.
"Umm. Hello."
"It is very hot today."
"Yes. Yes it is."
He latched onto my accent. "Oh," he said. "Where are you from?"
"Well," I replied, "sort of England and sort of Scotland."
He beamed at me. "It is very cold in Scotland."
"... ... Yes. Yes it is."
"And it snows in England."
"Yes, sometimes."
"Not like here!"
"No."
"Because here it is sunny."
"Yes."

His smile flickered, and he turned quickly and began hanging the shirts on the rack. I waited politely, then started edging away towards the books.

"Does it snow in Scotland, too?" He was quiet, as if talking privately to the shirts.
"Umm, yes. More than England."

He fell silent. I was browsing paperbacks before he spoke again. Perhaps two minutes had passed and he was sweating.

"Glasgow Rangers. Well. They're a good team, aren't they! They play football... or soccer." He seemed pleased about all of this.
"Yes, " I said. "Celtic are good too."

There was a sudden horror in his eyes. He had got it wrong, badly, and we both knew it. He grinned awkwardly - apologetically - and went back to colour-coordinating his shirts. I couldn't help thinking that there is probably an old Rangers top kicking around somewhere in the shop, discarded years ago by a Scottish backpacker.

Yesterday I went climbing down at Blackwall Reach. This is the same Swan River cliff Inday and I were jumping off - I met a couple of the regulars from the climbing wall and donned my swimming trunks for my first try at not-so-deep water soloing* (an abridged rock-climbing glossary is included below for the gravitationally-challenged). We started with the traverse along the base of the cliff, in the roof that overhangs high tide. The rock is limestone, riddled with monos* and pockets* and extremely sharp crimps*. There is much in the way of BS/E* poo from the doves and gulls that huddle in the windbreaks. The traverse is about twenty metres across, and I fell in twice. After the first fall my arms were so pumped* I couldn't close my fist. At the end of the traverse you have to solo the cliff to get to the path. We collected our gear and walked over to the cave area, where there is a spectacular (but easy) dyno* for a prow of rock that overhangs by three or four metres. The jump itself is quite easy but the swing out from the rock is wild. When stable, you jam your toe into a pocket, pull up for a good handle and haul yourself up to the top. Mike filmed the whole thing - if I can work out how, I'll put the video up, as well as my failed attempt to climb the underside of the prow (another dunking in the Swan) and my first (and never to-be-repeated) ascent/descent of a totally new climb, 'Toothbrush' at tentative Aussie grade 16*. It was good climbing, though I've scratched and bloodied my arms, legs, back, hands. Yesterday was also the first day of rain in Perth since I've been here; two months of scorching sunshine and we pick the first day of rain, wind, and temperatures below 30 oC to splash about in the river wearing nothing but trunks and rockboots.

For anyone who has not yet discovered the joy of rocks:

Deep water solo - Climbing without ropes because your landing is cushioned by water, usually the sea. Done in everything from swimmies to drysuits, depending on where you climb. Some lunatic Canadian called Trotter is planning on combining deep-water-soloing with base-jumping because he wants to climb over thirty metres.

Mono/mono-doight - Adapted from the French for 'single-finger', a mono is any hold that will only take one finger. Obviously. This also pretty much guarantees a break/tear/sprain/dislocation/partial amputation if you take fall on a mono and don't act quickly; also giving a new and immediate meaning to the idea of 'pulling your finger out' when in a hurry.

Crimp - A minging hold such as a tiny ledge onto which you can only fit the ends of the top digits of your fingers; which will, if your entire body weight is being suspended by said hold, create an inverse arch between the first and second digits, leading to pain, cursing, and much enthusiasm for a decent pocket...

...pocket - Another kind of hold, hollow and two/three/four fingers/hand size, loved by climbers because it is hopefully quite good and you can hold onto it for a while before conceding you should probably try to finish the climb. The biggest pockets are called jugs. The Antichrist of all climbing holds is the Sloper.

BS/E - Invented yesterday by Chris, the BS scale refers to the amount of Bird Shit on any given route. 'E' is Extreme - a lot of Bird Shit.

Pumped - Whereby the extreme and relatively unusual strain of using the muscles in your forearms causes them to flood with lactic acid. Your arms become taut, numb, laced with previously unknown veins and hard to do things with - until normal service is resumed. On any tough climb, being pumped is a good excuse for falling off. As in: "Man, I got pumped towards the top. That's why I fell off, you know."

Dyno - Short for 'dynamic', regarding any move that involves leaving the rock face either significantly or entirely to secure the next hold. This typically means using good holds to jump upwards because the next hold is not reachable any other way.

Grade - I will ignore, for the moment, the fact that there are dozens of different grading systems that concur, disagree, contradict, confirm and ridicule each other and focus only on the Australian system, which is - in typically Australian fashion - very straightforward. It is numbered from 1 to (currently) 34 where 1 means you are lying on a bed and 34 means you are one of the dozen best climbers in the world - congratulations! I'm pushing for grade 20 at the moment. Grades are a matter of constant debate depending on how you climb. For example, I climb two attempts from three a nice, reachy grade 19 involving a big dyno and very wide moves on good holds. Chris is quite a lot smaller than me and he can't climb the big moves. He can, however, climb a grade 19 on the other side of the hall which I fall off every time because he can hold the tiny crimps and my legs are too long for a crucial move where you jam your knee into a crack in the wall. It's just how it goes. This also leads to speculation and sniffy comments such as:

"Well, all I'm saying is I think it's tough for the grade."
"That's an 18? That's not an 18. That's a 17, maybe 17/18."
"Man, did they change the holds and keep the same grade or something?"
"Oh, it's very easy for a 21 you know. The easiest 21 on the wall."
"She just climbed 27? Holy shit."

We watched 'The Last King of Scotland' last night. It is an exceptional movie. See it.

Monday, February 26, 2007

Your stupid knees bent running whopper

Tubthumping time, comrades: the pigdogs are trying to restrict photography in a public place - citing, for a change, 'national security':

"...the UK Government are about to propose restrictions on photography in public places which would make street photography and documentary photography against the law. There are several moves promoting the requirement of 'ID' cards to permit photographers to operate in a public place. It is a fundamental right of a UK citizen to use a camera in a public place, and indeed there is no right to privacy when in a public place. These moves have developed from paranoia and only promote suspicion towards genuine people following their hobby or profession."

If this is important to you: http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/Photography/

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Smash and bash

There are African women wearing dresses of coloured dots and spots, the kid with a skateboard strapped to his back, another in his hands and he kickflips the third over the kerb, the man with the cowboy hat and belt buckle and turtle head his hands shake with age and illness, fatty smells of the fast food staff sharing a cigarette because Smoke if you got 'em, man, and schoolgirls you can already see which ones will be pretty, scattered reflections of jet plane against the towerbloc which is two sets of people in boxes but these will stay to answer phones and faxes and these will fly on away, away instead to Toronto, Tokyo, Tahiti, London El Salvatore, the back of her head all smiling and shy as she calls her lover, the back of his head as he chews on a sandwich and is desperately in love with the pigeons that squabble at his feet, electric wheelchair whining with high speed and running down the careless, squinting in the morning sun, window cleaner with pasta salad boxes and chamois cloth, All Sports, Bar & Bistro, Australia Australia but you, Scotsman, are proud of being broken. Teenagers mistake confusion for misery and dress in black and pierce lips, noses, necks because their parents never did and their friends always will with laugh aloud humping the lampost, police car, jewellery store, pork pie hats of tweed and black filed beneath with pansexual Japanese; you are fighting a peace for the security of war, war, SHOOTING STARS let's take it literal. War, war, gutshot: when we strike there will be no warning. Her shoes ripple on the flag like stones on ice the song whipping along the railway tracks, the short skirts, the gang of men in suits walk the street in a scene so Resevoir Dogs it must be rehearsed they daydream practice in their cubicles while they manage accounts or sell things, men in suits in company cars with air conditioning and so never feel the wind in their $100 haircuts, the cars stacked along the freeway, relentless broken mirror in the last evening sun still hot so the buildings are on two sides a refuge. Plaster saints, plaster Jesus, Francis, Nicoli, Anthony, standing and standing and sitting and kneeling, evacuation to the desert but when you live in the desert there is nothing to do except walk to the sea. Billy Lee's Cafe at Chinese New Year smash and bash of cymbal and drum, the dragons nod again to lord buddha, the scrapping for cabbage strung to the drainpipe, snapping of eyelids and ear and lip, jump and crouch and shake and can't hear a thing, stretchy bus sings the whale song on the corners, pnuematics, suspension, brakes, mulch bleached white in the sun, the ants a full inch long, the big ones nearer inch and a half and mean to boot, skies blue and black with distant lightning, piano plays soft chords, distant chords... and if all we have is NOW then I'm not sure I can wait.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

I hate James Kelman

I hate James Kelman and 'You Have To Be Careful In The Land Of The Free' is turning into my personal Vietnam. It goes on forever, I never get any closer to the end and I take absolutely no pleasure at all from reading it. It sucks at your soul, like watching Jordan and Gavin playing pool. It sits by my bed and radiates malevolence. I look for any excuse to avoid reading more of it. I read 'Generation X' in one sitting on the flight from Sydney. I read 'Fellowship of the Ring' inside four hours. But I've been reading the Kelman since November and I can't manage more than a dozen pages without getting... edgy. I also lapped up 'number9dream' by David Mitchell - if you haven't read any of his books yet, you should do so immediately. Like right now. 'Ghostwritten', 'number9dream' and 'Cloud Atlas' are simply astonishing pieces of work, especially 'Ghostwritten', 'number9dream' and 'Cloud Atlas'. I understand 'Black Swan Green' is just as good - that's on the hit-list once I've finished 'The History Of The World'. I've only just reached the Neanderthals, but's it's already fascinating stuff.

Little of substance to report. I've been looking for work, badly, and cooking occasional soup. I spend time in the garden, laying paving slabs and avoiding hornets. Jem and I have extended the patio around the vegetable patch. Working in the garden was a real chore when I was a kid - I quite enjoy it now. We mulched the plants by the back door, and already there are pumpkins pushing up through the woodchip. The meat ants have taken a beating in the driveway and the bonfire stack grows a new wing every with passing weekend. It's going to be a cracker once the fire ban is lifted. We cleared the rotten wood from up by the gate and found cockroaches, geckos, hissing crickets, huntsman spiders with legspan like a Slint CD...

Explosions In The Sky! Triple J radio is exactly what public broadcast should sound like, this is what you should hear when you turn on Radio 1 at home. A judgement call, but I'm making it. What is the point of playing exactly what the commercial stations play? Dross, trash, nothing. Public radio should be a forum for the things the commercials won't touch with a ten-foot clown pole, the new bands, new music, no matter how esoteric or unlistenable it might be. This is public service:

You made friends with ugly people so you'd stand out in a crowd
You were screaming at your mum and I was punching your dad
I said you must be a girl with shoes like that she said you know me well
You're only nineteen you don't need a boyfriend you're only nineteen
All this depends on the shoulders and bends we could be anyone have done anything I'm trying to trust you but I just don't know where you've been
What the sea wants the sea will have
Cos then she might be happy no longer lonely and I could take her out for pretty much free
Marilyn Monroe never married Henry Miller BUT IF SHE DID she might have felt like a woman instead of like a picture in a magazine
Colours and colours and colours and
I sailed a wild wild sea I climbed a tall tall mountain I met an old old man beneath a weeping willow tree
In the morning I can smell you on my pillow I need to know you won't get wrung out in the wash
You can't fool me, Dennis
Here we go again
A-wooooOOOOOOooooo
I like giants especially girl giants because all girls feel big sometimes regardless of their size
We busted out of class
Satan satan satan satan satan satan satan said DANCE!
And we'll all float on OK don't worry even if things wind up a bit too heavy we'll all float on OK
Ba-da ba ba DA da da da da!

Yeah so this week I have mostly been listening to The Fratellis and The Long Blondes and a Modest Mouse concert I taped off the radio. I'm climbing, trying to push my grade to 20 with some good stuff at the Hangout and a work experience kid with walleye follows you around talking and talking and talking. New climbing shoes: I'm never going back to lace-ups. Dips and crunches and cutting down on the beer, slinging paving slabs by the fingertips and sand everywhere. The hornets catch spiders and pump them full of venom. The spider is paralysed, bunched up and still twitching, dragged back to the burrow and injected with eggs. The larvae are incubated by the paralysed spider, and will eventually eat it, slowly.

Coincidentally, this is pretty much the fate I wish upon James Kelman every time I pick up his stinking book.

Check out the new links: cousin Jules did the snakes for 'Snakes On A Plane!' amongst many others - cousin Janey has published her first novel 'Gabbra's Song' - Iain 'Grumpy Old Bastard' Maloney has got some new and old writing up on The Watcher On The Quay - chum Banks' best music yet at My Friend Otto especially 'What Are You Looking At' - plus lots of Scottish bouldering news at Stone Country.

Hmmm. I have just noticed there are lots of names with 'J's in my family... Jules, Janey, Janet, Jayden, Jasmine, Jeremy, Jarrad, Justin, Joan, John, June, and there will certainly be more. But rather more disturbingly, and certainly more immediately, I have also just noticed that there are several very small ants in my coffee.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Today is the Thursday of the rest of your life

"Have fun," grins Neil. "Mind the sharks."
"Har-har," I sneer.
"We will," says Inday.
"What?!"
"Bull sharks," she says casually. "Two of them sighted in the river."
"They're quite small, aren't they?"
"Three or four metres, something like that."
"But they wouldn't attack us, right?"
"Second most aggressive shark, after the tiger shark."
"Aww, come on. They won't like large splashes."
"They're attracted to large splashes."
"But not up river. Fresh water."
"It's a tidal river. They don't feed until evening."
I look at my watch. "It's six o'clock."
"Yeah, around then."

Cliff-jumping is fun. So yeah, I'm staying in Perth. I was having several second thoughts about leaving... then found out it was free to change the date of my ticket after all... so I'll be here a little longer. A lot longer. I like it here. I like the people, I like working in the orchard, and the weather is almost passable once the sun has set. I'm climbing at least once a week again and feeling good about it (managed that running-jumping climb from last week - not sure how). The next thing to do is find a job: I've sent some begging letters to a camera company, which was quite disheartening - I thought I'd left the desperate cold-calling behind me, but I'd rather do camera work than bar work. Time will probably make that decision for me.

Jeremy works for Legal Aid, a government body that provides legal support for those who need it. He sent me this article the other day. It's an astounding first in Australian law:

"SYDNEY(AAP) - A seven-year-old boy was at the center of a Parramatta, NSW courtroom drama yesterday when he challenged a court ruling over who should have custody of him. The boy has a history of being beaten by his parents and the judge initially awarded custody to his aunt, in keeping with child custody law and regulations requiring that family unity be maintained to the best degree possible.

The boy surprised the court when he proclaimed that his aunt beat him more than his parents and he adamantly refused to live with her. When the judge then suggested that he live with his grandparents, the boy cried out that they had also beaten him on occasion. After considering the remainder of the immediate family and learning that domestic violence was apparently a way of life among them, the judge took the unprecedented step of allowing the boy himself to propose who should have custody of him.

After two recesses to check legal references and confer with child welfare officials, the judge granted temporary custody to the English Cricket Team, whom the boy firmly believes are incapable of beating anyone."

All the sweeter after thrashing Australia last week. But we'll probably lose to the Kiwis today, which will save us a drubbing in the final. Funny thing, though - last week, in my infinite wisdom, I was ranting to Jeremy that the best thing the ECB could do now would be to fill the squad with young players who could get blooded - and bloodied - at international level. At least they might be hungry to win a game... then Bhopra, Nixon, Loye, Joyce, and Plunkett come out and actually play cricket. And win or lose, a contest is all we've really wanted since November.

If anyone is planning on applying to the BBC for a job, my advice is to be extremely sarcastic on the application form and also drink as much as possible while writing it.