Posted 17 September 2009 by The Weekender

0 comments

Biarritz has beaten Bayonne and the whole town is alive, vibrant with Saturday night revelling as rugby fans celebrate their local Derby victory. Horns toot and blare, the team anthem is playing from every passing car, people are dancing in the street.

For reasons completely unknown to me many of the red and white support are dressed as Indian Chiefs - full feather headress and warpaint - their wives as squaws. Inside our little bodega the sangria is flowing the paella being scoffed (we are in basque country after all) while outside a little old man dressed head to toe in team colours is waving a red and green version of the Union Jack* and despite his years moving to the music with impeccable grace and quite stylish timing. It is fiesta time. Twickenham, with its loud and leery drunks, was never, ever like this.

The team truck passes with a sound system blasting out the anthem and we repair to another bodega where what appears to be the team are making merry with hundreds of supporters , dancing and singing, waving at passing cars and buses who're blasting their horns now. There are children leaping around, their mothers dancing, their fathers maybe just tapping their toes.

We leave them to it and wander away, passing smaller bars which echo the noise. We are in party town, quite by accident, so rather than go straight home, we're drawn towards a karaoke bar, The Queen, where we have noticed more merrymaking. Inside, a small squad of camp followers, not attached to rugby proceedings, are belting out French and English songs with aplomb, putting their body and soul into it. We have stumbled across "France's Got Talent" and it is wonderful. We have a little grandstand seat and we watch and listen in awe as torch songs echo around the walls, long forgotten french classics see the light of day again, and the occasional Elvis number is enthusiastically performed, complete with finger pointing, fancy footwork, and a snarled lip.

The door opens and in stumble what appear to be rugby revellers, about twelve of them, and they colonise the bar, mincing and preening as they imitate the singers. But they're not rugger buggers, they're a British Stag Night, and they're out for a laugh.

We fall into conversation as they basically take over the bar, much to the annoyance of other customers and staff. Individually, they're all very nice, if a little pissed, but collectively they're givin it large, dismissing the singers as 'pricks' and 'dicks', generally mooning and dancing like Noel Gallagher on a bad day. They try to get their names down to sing but madame, she 'eez 'aving none of it, and a boisterous discussion takes place with the Englanders declaring that it's 'not right' that they're not being allowed to sing, that it's discrimination not to have any English songs sung, and, oh, something else of great import to a bunch of normal guys who've been necking lager since they got off the easyjet.

Madame relents under management pressure and the lads sing. Or rather they get hold of the mikes. They are shit. I mean, really really incomprehensibly embarrassing shit, incapable of singing a single note in tune between them. They roll around the bar, arms around shoulders and generally shout and ball until madame loses it, switches off the track and the barman walks out in search of the gendarmerie. The lads think this is just not on and protest, but sense that it might be time to head off. We are invited to the wedding next week, we shake hands with all of them and promise to meet up the following day (yeah, sure guys). But we politely decline the call to attend other bars, despite my partner being described as a 'fit bird' by a man whose weekday life, we are sure, is spent within the confines of The City.

The bar is quiet, the crowd now depleted, then Biarritz's own Marc Almond gets up and the air is filled with camp melodrama again. He's followed immediately by an emotional duet, and then a riveting performance of 'Suspicious Minds' which has us on our feet. cheering and clapping and demanding an encore, before deciding that, at 2am, it might be time to head home.

* The Ikurrina, unofficial flag of Basque national Autonomy.

Posted 30 October 2008 by The Weekender

0 comments

You probably ski. I don't. The first time I ever set off down the slopes, (leaving aside the tin trays and bikes of my youth), I was Snowploughing and crashed into a fellow Boy Scout who had just broken his leg and was inconveniently lying in my way. I had to walk off the hill carrying both his sticks and skis and mine as penance while he was carried off supposedly in pain. As I stumbled down the hill trying to control an impossible array of unruly lengths of wood, he even had the temerity to scream. Trying to impress the girls no doubt. I was even made to visit him for several weeks after, while he skived off school with a large plastered legcast which all the girls seemed to sign when I wasn't there.

In any case, I always thought ski-ing was about freezing your nuts off, being permanently wet, sniffling and sipping hot toddies every night to ward off the world's worst chill. This is because I learnt at Aviemore and Glenshee in Scotland, the winterperson's winterplace. I'm not saying it wasn't fun, it certainly was at the time, (how we laughed at the permanent closure of the road connecting Cockbridge and Tomintoul), but some years later it came as something of a surprise to discover that you could ski in sunshine, surrounded by elegant smiling people who appeared to be wearing teeshirts rather than cagoules, with suntans rather than pinched, cold, wet blue noses. From the Alps to the Rockies: warmth, comfort, and apres ski which didn't involve sprinting through cold, freezing rain.

But a little hardship does you good, so the frozen cold of Hokkaido in Northern Japan wasn't too daunting for me, just the softies I was with. Although I didn't expect to stink so much......

Before he died at the tender age of 101 Keizo Muira owned the Muira Ski School at Teine, outside Sapporo City in Hokkaido which was where I met him, flying down the hill at speed, looking for all the world like a man half his age. British centenerians generally explain that they have reached the Queens telegram with a diet of fried lard, 100 fags a day and a port and lemon for breakfast. Mr Muira, made of slightly sterner stuff enjoyed, among other things, brown rice. I think he ran the place since the Olympics were held there thirty odd years previously but the last I heard, after he'd ski-d down Mont Blanc at 99, he was celebrating his 100th by ski-ing down someplace in Utah. Gawd rest 'is soul, 'e was as fine a specimen of the species as you're ever likely to meet. Although to be honest, brown rice makes me puke.

I look back on my time in Hokkaido with a sense of wonder. We were there for the ice and snow sculpture show where the army press together many tons of hard packed white stuff to fashion life-size jumbo jets and mickey mouse sculptures which the Japanese have loved for many centuries, and we toured the Sapporo Beer brewery in the freezing cold, determined to drink ourselves stupid in the alloted time you're given for "unlimited beer". And we went for dinner to the Genghis Khan, a bar-b-q hall where lamb is cooked (by you) on top of moon shaped griddles at your table. The meat doesn't stick because you spoon the fat over the top, creating palls of smoke and acrid smells. Fine, who cares, ain't ya been to a barb-b-q before? Yes, I have, but not one where you check your coat in and rather than hang it up they put it inside a plastic bag and hand it back to you. It's the smell of the cooking you see. Repulsive. Lasts for days. (But at least your coat escapes). At the karaoke bar that night we were given the special corner table, well away from the hoi polloi, some of whom even moved further away in deference to the arrival of some elegant and finely turned out strangers. Who stank.

But in recompense, I saw the most beautiful thing. At a crossroads, where the snow had been ploughed aside to clear the sidewalk, each of the four corners was marked by a clear ice bollard, about three feet high. Inside each bollard was a fish, frozen as if gently swimming upstream to spawn. Each fish was different and each, in the crystal clear ice, shimmered in the bright morning sun. It was so beautiful I thought later I must have dreamt it. .

Posted 27 October 2008 by The Weekender

0 comments

Friday 8am. Am woken by cat leaping off wardrobe. Like dropped sack of potatoes, except with feet, and claws, and loud yelping noises. Did it at 5am too - apparently it likes me. Quickly work out that in order to kill it I have to catch it first, and while I'm still under the duvet it's already out the door, laughing. It belongs to my friends anyway, that may take some explaining.

Get up and try to remember why I've taken holday in Glasgow rather than Cannes this week, especially since I can't remember where dry cleaners is that contains suit which got covered in red wine by clumsy partygoer. It's in Partick, so walk down to Dumbarton Road where I meet elderly friend at cashpoint who's just been to doctor and given the all clear. "What for?" I ask. "Worst hangover I've ever had" comes the cheery reply, "Just going off to try and find the car now. Want a lift?"

10.30am. Get subway (single stop) to Govan, and walk through the quiet, sunny streets of what was once a thriving shipyard community but is now largely deserted, to pack bag and leave.

12.00 noon. Stagger down stairs with enormous bag and walk to bus stop to join cheery pensioners who are on their way to meet chums for shopping, cups of tea and probably small cheese and onion foldover from Greggs the bakers. (60p)

12.10 Alight with them at Shopping Centre and join queue to buy Greggs 59p sausage roll for late brunch. Scoff entire thing (yum) before taking subway, this time halfway round the entire system, to Buchanan Street.

12.29 Walk to Queen Street Station for train to Edinburgh which is packed to standing room only so sit in Business Class, where I can read a free copy of the Evening Times if I pay the supp of five quid. Ticket Inspector comes round and counts number of people in Business with economy tickets. All six of us. "Doesn't matter" he says and let's us all off. Nice man. The rest of the train is sweaty and rammed so donate my copy of Evening Times through sliding door in spirit of Red Cross.

13.30 Am late for lunch so sprint up Waverley Steps to Balmoral Hotel, where I have stayed many a time but this time, it's not me, it's just the bag, ahem, before heading up to Harvey Nicks where, on the Forth Floor advance party has a table outside, and we enjoy the fresh air, sunshine and spectacular view over St Andrews Square while munching and drinking posh food and wine al fresco. The starter is some kind of tiny dried up smoked haddock pastry thing which I wouldn't have paid 29p for in Greggs, followed by "Thai" fishcakes which are as big as they are tasteless. Greggs don't serve fishcakes so no comparable data available. This is not good. I like this place and have dined here several times. We all have off days I guess.

15.30 All manner of famous faces are lingering and drinking after lunch, some of whom I can even put a name to, rather than simply "that's that bloke off Mock the Week". Tragically no deal is done so we agree to reconvene in London for more posh food and wine.

16.00 Head off to join colleagues at office behind station to catch up and go for a swift drink.

18.00 We are esconsed in a smart Thai champagne bar but swap for beers in tiny wee pub in Royal Mile, which has resisted gastropubification and only serves drink to bona fide drunks. And us. Crisps if you're lucky, although to be fair it does have a small room at the back which is transformed into a theatre for the festival. Thus providing a three week income which probably outstrips the annual bar takings. The barman is an expert at lighting his fag behind the bar, taking a draw as he walks towards the door, inhaling and, as he reaches the fresh air, blowing out a lungful of smoke, thus not breaking any laws. There is also a military chap, sporting several scars and tattoos, who wants to be my friend.

20.00 Hopes of dinner in Edinburgh's poshest new Italian eaterie are dashed (we didn't book) so a greek meze and BYOB suffice. Thresher's 3 for 2 deal means we've got two extra bottles which miraculously we do not open as we are too busy talking.

23.00 I snaffle one of the bottles, get it opened by pushing my way through a melee of drunks in the Waverly Station bar to grab the corkscrew and settle down in the overnight sleeper buffet to read and drink wine. But have mislaid reading glasses! And can't read! Bah! Do not therefore feel like sitting drinking wine. Strike up conversation with other passenger who has cancer. Very sad, very thoughtful, very brave. Terminal.

00.00 Change mind. Drink wine.

02.00 Stagger - the train is moving - to berth and try not to waken other occupant but accidentally switch light on, kick him while clambering into top bunk, switch main overhead light on, loudly apologise and then - presumeably - snore all the way to Euston.

07.00 Turfed out into cruel light of day and jump in cab. Arrive home at 8am and we go out to Patisserie Valerie for breakfast. Beautiful morning, slightly sleepy. Put other suit in other dry cleaners - one I'll remember this time.09.00. Head for proper tube, Piccadilly line, to Heathrow. Sail through whole process (already checked in, no queues, pleasant staff give me fast track pass) and, despite efforts of British Airports Authority to prevent me finding plane by constructing large supermarket in the middle of the terminal, by 11am am sitting in airline lounge eating dimsum for second breakfast.

12.00 Board Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong and change into Shanghai Tang pyjamas. Chinese attendent surprises me with Glaswegian accent. He's from Shawlands, which is a bit like the nearby Govan except everyone has a job and a large house. Watch movies, sleep, eat, sleep, watch movies.

07.00 Arrive Hong Kong and am whisked by fast car along motorways, over bridges, through tunnels into Central for first meeting where, in the sublime surroundings of the Mandarin Oriental, we are to my disappointment eating fashionable western style breakfast (boo!) instead of dimsum which is probably what the entire population of HK is tucking into at that moment.

11.00 Meeting over and am whisked off again to ferry for Macau where the world's biggest hotel/casino complex is about to open. The Venetian - a clone of the Las Vegas Venetian , where the Grand Canal and gondolas exist cheek by jowl with branches of Nike and Zara - just like Venice itself.Acres of wealth, bags of opulence, 3000 duplex suites instead of rooms, plus twenty four hours a day seriously upscale fine dining establishments from Japan, Los Angeles, Paris, and New York. But alas not Govan. There are no 59p sausage rolls to be found anywhere. Greggs take note please.