La Dolce Vita

In Venice, history is everywhere. After arriving at Marco Polo International Airport, walk through the door marked with the fluorescent green uscita sign and you will be faced with history in the making: the world’s first water limousines.

Accept the weathered hand of the stocky little Venetian with the deep, dark tan and hop from the mainland on to the luxury Viva-styled boat. Clamber down its pine steps into the airy cabin below where you can slump into its blue leather pews, relax and allow your senses to be attacked like a 5th Century Lombard bombardment.

Smells, sights, sounds. Saltwater, ships, seagulls.

Perhaps, as you are gazing out watching little green islands pass you by, somebody will inform you that Venice is made up of 117 separate islets. Perhaps, while enjoying the cool Adriatic Sea breeze blow against your face, you are asked if you know that La Serinissima Repubblica [Most Serene Republic] was built both, on stilts and in stages, dating back some 1,500 years. Perhaps, sitting there, eyes closed, breathing in the salty air, somebody whispers to ask you where you are staying.

Giudecca is a group of gondola-shaped islands; an archipelago of architectural delights. Its most prominent feature is Venice’s newest hotel, the Molino Stucky Hilton, and, like most of Venezia, the islet is not only soaked in history, but also only accessible by boat. Giudecca, for this reason, is the ideal base for a short trip to the so-called “City of Water”.

While the busier parts of Venice such as San Marco and Santa Croce are thronged with tourists, Giudecca is a haven of peace. And as long as you save its serene sanctuary to rest your head at night, spending a day getting lost walking Venice’s ancient labyrinthine pathways with a host of holidaymakers is all part of the adventure.

Weave in and out of loud and proud Americans as you cross the Ponte di Rialto [Rialto Bridge], leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the 1,000-year-old marketplace where modern day merchants of Venice try to sell you tiny glass gondolas and carnival masks. On the other side of the bridge, you will find classy canal-side coffee shops that have likely been extorting tourists’ money for just as many years.

Jostle with the camera-juggling Japanese for the best view of the Ponte dei Sospri (Bridge of Sighs) and discover that the 16th Century crossing got its name because its windows afforded prisoners their last glimpses of freedom as they walked, condemned, from the governmental courtroom to the adjacent jail.

Or simply sit among the pigeons and the sunburnt British backpackers in Piazza San Marco [St Mark’s Square]. Live musicians will entertain your ears with Vivaldi while you can relax and ‘peoplewatch’. (You will soon realise that, despite all my tourist stereotypes – and I witnessed each of these walking clichés with my own eyes – the predominant holidaymaker is actually the Italian day-tripper.)

On the Eastern façade of the Piazza lies the Porta della Carta [Paper Door], a gaudy, late-Gothic gate once allowing entrance to the Palazzo Ducale [Doge’s Palace]. The Doge [pronounced “Doh-jay” – or Duke if you’re speaking English] was, for around 1,000 years, Venice’s chief magistrate and all governmental decisions were made inside this monumental masterpiece.

First established in the 9th Century, the Doge’s Palace is a colossal wonder that encompasses both Renaissance and Byzantine style art, but mostly exudes a historical narrative. Walk up the 21 steps of the Scala dei Giganti [Giant’s Staircase] taking a right turn at the towering statues of Mars and Neptune. Now follow the stone pathway until you come to the Scala d’Oro [Golden Staircase] and, looking closely, at the foot of the steps, scribbled hastily into the white Istrian stone balustrade, you will find “Panutte Emilio 1880”. For, you see, in Venice, even the graffiti is centuries-old.

Arguably the Palace’s most spectacular sight, however, is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio [Grand Council Hall] where almost every inch of wall and ceiling is covered with paintings, including Tintoretto’s 16th Century Paradiso, which is believed to be, measuring in at 22mx7m, the world’s largest oil painting on canvas.

Running around the perimeter of the Grand Hall are portraits of the first 76 Doges (well, portraits of the first 75 Doges and a black space to mark that of Marin Falier, “the Dodgy Doge” – my term! – who was beheaded in 1355 for treason).

And while the Venetians might pride themselves on the age of their relics they ensure that their food is as fresh as the lilacs hanging outside the windows of their terracotta trattorias.

Seafood is the dominant delicacy on most menus and you can’t go far wrong sampling some of the local fish such as branzino, sea bass or folpeti – thankfully none of which is caught in the murky green waters of the Canale Grande.

Be warned however, Venice is allegedly the most expensive city in Italy when it comes to eating out so you may want to embrace ‘la dolce vita’ elsewhere. Either that or settle for a quick panini and some traditional Venetian cicheti; a selection of bite-sized snacks including fried calamari and rice-stuffed tomatoes.
Now, having filled your bags with sophisticated souvenirs, filled your cameras with splendid sights and filled your stomachs with sumptuous seafood, it’s time to head back to Giudecca, your serene sanctuary. Squeeze yourself on to one of the ever-busy but ever-reliable vaporetti [water buses] and say “caio” to Venice and its unique history – much of which is older than the word itself.

King Coconuts in Kandy

(The entry below was written in central Sri Lanka, but I've only just got around to typing it up. Also included are some photos, and apologies for the excruciatingly poor quality, but I had to make do with a disposable camera for reasons already explained.)

KANDY - May 26, 2007

Having arrived at Bandaranaike International Airport, I fell into the welcoming and waiting arms of Meril at Airwing Tours. After much deliberation and haggling, I signed up for a driver and three nights accommodation in three separate cities in Sri Lanka. It cost 27,000 Sri Lankan rupees, which is roughly about Dh 920, which is approximately £128.

The drive from Negombo, which is where the airport is, to Kandy takes three hours, but as it was 5.30am Sri Lankan time (strangely it was 4am UAE time!) the sun had risen and I was able to take in the sights of the Subcontinent.

And what a sight greeted me outside the bank. A slender, dark-skinned figure was sitting on a small wall with their back to me - absolutely naked. The body was writhing as it toyed with something in it's hands. Only when I got nearer and he turned around to reveal a scraggly grey beard and a pair of blood-shot eyes that even Oliver Reed would have been proud of, did my thoughts return to the autoteller.

My driver's name is Tajman, but I've to call him Taj. He is a smiley fellow, like most people in Sri Lanka seem to be. He speaks English perfectly, but can also communicate in Sinhala, Hindi, Tamil and Arabic (he used to work in Doha). He is a Roman Catholic and informs me that Negombo is often called 'Little Rome' because 90 per cent of its population are RC.

It may have been the fact that I have had only five hours sleep since Wednesday night (it's now Saturday morning) but as we drive through the shanty towns on our way to Kandy, overtaking ricketty old tuk-tuks and buses full of smiling schoolchildren, I think I love this place.

We stop at a roadside stall selling fruit and buy two king coconuts ("very good for you in the morning" says Taj, "but make you pee-pee"), two boiled corn on the cobs and two herbal drinks (a green sweet and sour milky drink with rice in it, boiled). I stand in the shade of a palm tree drinking my coconut juice through a straw in the top of its shell and watch the world go by. This is nothing like I have ever experienced before. Men walking along the pot-holed roads, bare-chested and wearing shorts or sarongs. Three-wheeled rickshaws thundering along the road, weaving in and out of the oncoming traffic. Fields as far as the eye can see full of rice. Mountainous landscapes in the other direction with shiny, evergree trees. Little black girls with their hair in pleats walking to school in their white school dresses. A haggard old woman sitting among three prickly porcupines chained to a tree stump.

It's exactly how I image Africa, but it's Asia. I always thought my friend Sujiva was African until he told me he was Asian - I remember betting him £5 that Sri Lanka was in Africa. Oh naivety!

Further along the road, a man stands balancing a box of mango sticks on his head, a pack of monkeys dash across the road in front of us - Taj informs me there are two types of monkey in Sri Lanka: the Black Monkey and the Yellow Monkey. "Yellow Monkey is craaazy. Very naughty," he says smiling. "Everywhere they go, they make sex."



As he informs me we are nearing my first of the three hotels, we wind up a twisting road, stuck behind a tuk-tuk. Only when we go around a wide bend do we realise that the tuk-tuk is also stuck in traffic - behind two elephants! They are plodding along up the hill, their ivory tusks still in tact. I watch them as we drive past and let out a gasp of sheer excitement; like a youngster who's just noticed Santa Clause handing out gifts in their local Asda. Elephants walking the streets! Amazing.

The hotel is called The Majestic, and it is anything but. Well, that;s not fair. On first impression it is a dive, but it's got everything you could wish for: balcony, double bed, air-con, ensuite, hot water, breakfast. The staff member I meet is a peculiar looking guy who seems intent on staying in my room as long as possible. His big smile has an ambiguous slant to it and when he offers me a massage I quickly decline and insist he lets me sleep - which I do once I have expelled him from my presence and, naturally, locked my door.

(This was the view from the balcony of The Majestic - if you click the picture you can see the monkeys eating bananas - inevitably, soon after they started 'making sex')

(This was me at the edge of Kandy Lake, there is an island in the middle that looks like paradise, one solo palm tree and a smattering of greenery)

Autobahnter

“Allahu akhbar. Allahu akhbar. Allahu akhbar,” says the voice overhead, complete with haunting echo. I’m on Air Arabia flight 39505 to Colombo. But only just. Let me wind back for you and tell you the tale of how I came ever-so-close to not being on Air Arabia flight 39505 and not listening to a voice overhead reciting scripture from the Koran.

Having discovered last night that I have the following four days off, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get out of town. At 11.30pm I was dealt the good news, at 12.30am I booked my flight. I looked at several destination (including Daar Es Salaam, Cairo and Tunisia) but settled on Colombo. My reasoning was two-fold: it was cheaper (Dh905 for return flights) and I actually wanted to go to Sri Lanka. I didn’t bother with accommodation.

I’ve already agreed to go to Dibba on the east coast of Fujairah with Tony and Greg this morning and as my flight is not until 10.30pm, my plans need not be altered. Tone picks me up at the villa at 12pm and we make a (what was supposed to be) short trip to Mall of the Emirates – I want to pick up the Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka. After some food, we finally set off for Fujairah – in a brand new, lemon yellow Corvette no less, which Tony is reviewing it for the paper.



Despite driving along the Arabian autobahn at 240kph (sorry mum!), we don’t arrive at the Sunny Beach resort until 4pm, where we then meet Greg, wife Kate and friend Martin. We go for a snorkel and I take some photos with my new underwater camera. All is well.

At about 6pm I suggest we get going as I still have to pack and it is a fair journey back across the Emirates to Dubai. Tony fancies a coke and washes it down with a “Chocolate Boule”.

I’m back in the Corvette speeding through Arabian Sands by 6.34pm. Even at this stage, we are doing OK. My flight doesn’t leave until 10.30pm and so long as you check in 45 minutes before take-off, you’re fine. Unfortunately for me, at about 8pm we hit some bad traffic and at one point during the soul-searching, fate-cursing, tumultuous hour and 18 minutes it takes us to get home, we travel 2km in 17 minutes. When every second counts, you can always count on Dubai traffic to ruin everything.

21.18: Still need to pack bag and drive to Sharjah airport (which, incidentally, a taxi company reassured me it would take “50 minutes to an hour” to reach from Media City).

21.20: Still need to drive to Sharjah airport. (I would later learn that the bag I packed in 2 minutes and 32 seconds had everything in it that I required – but, tragically, I left my camera, sunscreen and Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka in the Corvette.)

Neither myself nor Tony actually know where Sharjah airport is. But with it being 21.20 and me needing to be there by 21.45, there is no time for us to bother with such minor details. The smell of burning rubber is likely in the air as we speed out of Media City. In a moment of sheer, unadulterated bravery (or was it stupidity? The borderline was so thin it could’ve been either) Tony dismisses the unanimous recommendations to take Emirates Rd and opts instead for Sheikh Zayed Rd.

At Garhoud Bridge at 21.42 heavy traffic hits us again like a blow to the gut by George Foreman in 1974 when he was training to fight Muhammad Ali in Zaire’s Rumble in the Jungle. There is no chance I can make the flight now. Colombo will be added to the growing list, not of cities I have visited, but of cities I have failed to visit because I’ve missed my flight (Palm Springs, Paris, London, Edinburgh…) We had simply left it too late. I have wasted Dh905 and now I will have the next four days in an empty villa in Al Sufouh to mill around rueing the “Chocolate Boule” and where I might’ve been.

Morale is at its deepest, darkest hour as I let out a cry in frustration (“Fuck!”). I called the airport to inform them I was enroute, but the voice simply said: “We will not delay the flight for you. You must be here 45 minutes at least to check in.” Nevertheless, we continue to head for our unknown final destination: there is always a chance, as my Bahamas miracle had proven. (I made my flight from Kansas City Intl to The Bahamas via Baltimore with literally four minutes to spare, ie, four minutes before take-off). But this is not America, this is Sharjah, where and Angry Arab can deny you simply because he doesn’t like the look of you. And we are already five minutes late, and we don’t know where we are going. Then, just as I am concocting a plan to fly tomorrow and come back a day later (“Sorry boss, my flight’s been delayed”) a sign appears on the roadside: “SHARJAH AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT”. I was only five minutes away…maybe, just maybe…

The Corvette’s 20” wheels pound the road as we fly towards the airport. The speed cameras that we had so carefully watched out for just hours earlier are now being ignored in reckless abandon. The end is in sight. My head spins as my mind works on a script for the check-in clerk.

GM: Hi sir, I’m booked on the 22.30 flight to Colombo. I’m terribly sorry, but I
got caught in some horrendous traffic.

SIR: I’m sorry sir, you are
too late, this desk is closed.

GM: But you don’t understand. It’s
essential that I get on that flight.

SIR (a young Indian in my imagination): And why is that sir? If it was essential, you should have been here on time.

GM: I’m a sports reporter for Emirates Today and I have an interview with the Sri Lankan World Cup cricket team… well, Lasith Malinga and Mahela Jayawardene, at 10am tomorrow in Colombo. I can’t miss it.

Having appealed to the young Indian’s cricket-loving character, he replies: OK sir, but you must be quick.

GM: Of course sir.

But until then, I am back in the yellow Corvette winding up the road towards the departures entrance. There’s a big queue of cars so I jump out, passport in one hand and my flip-flops in the other (can’t run in flip-flops) and make for the entrance. “Park up and bring my luggage in please, Tony!” I shout as I leave him in a jam.

I push and shove my way through the crowd of Indians as they seem to try their darndest to push a luggage trolley over my bare feet. Anybody watching would think I was dancing as I hop from one foot to the other. Finally, I get through and run up to the Air Arabia check-in. There isn’t one for Colombo so I rock up to Lagos, place my passport on the counter and tell the
young Arab woman (no cricket-loving Indian male here. No Sir!) of my plight and my flight. It’s 22.08; I’m 23 minutes late.

“OK sir, where is your luggage?”

“It’s coming. It’s just coming;
can I go and get it?”

“There is no time. We need to check your
luggage in now.”

“OK, in that case, I don’t have
any”

“You don’t have any luggage?”

“No. Just
hand-luggage”

“Just a purse? OK sir”

The lady gives me my boarding pass and urges me up the escalator. But where is my luggage? It literally is essential: my wallet is in it. I phone Tony who is being booked by a parking attendant and between conversations, he agrees to meet me at the departures entrance. Seconds go by.
They feel like fortnights. Where is he? There he is! He passes me my bag over the heads of three bemused Indians and with a shake of my hand and a shake of his head (No, he did not pick up my other bag containing my camera, etc), he is gone.

I put my flip-flops on, pick up my bag and casually walk up the stairs. After all that it’s only 22.12; I’ve still 18 minutes before I leave for Colombo. Although what I’m going to do there at 4.30am with no accommodation and, alas, no Lonely Planet Guide is another story entirely…

The Sheikh is Leaving Arabia

I found out tonight at approximately 11.30pm that I have the next four days off. At 12.30am I booked a return flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I leave tomorrow.

Oh and as the detective with the same name as the city I am visiting would say: "Just one more thing..."

It's monsoon season!

Censorship Nightmare

UAE censorship has reached a new level. Having bought my copy of Arctic Monkey's new album 'Favourite Worst Nightmare' from the local Virgin megastore, I took it home and unwrapped it from its cellophane wrapper. I put the CD in the stereo and thumbed through the booklet. Most of the inlay is simply "artistic" nonsense, but on the last page I have no idea what is printed, because the Censor had beaten me to it and taken a black permanent marker through the entire page.

I'm actually not bothered by the fact my inlay has been defaced, but I am very curious as to what I am not allowed to see, ie, what is "inconsistent with the religious, cultural, political and moral values of the United Arab Emirates".

If you can solve the puzzle, leave a comment.

Oh Man! It's Beautiful

Ahlan wa Sahlan wa MarHabn bekom (I passed my final Arabic exam so now have a certificate in Beginners' Arabic).

For those who don't yet know, the reason for the haitus in writing is that I have been promoted. I am no longer editing other people's writing, instead I am doing the writing: I am a sports reporter!

Sounds glamorous, but unless you consider going three rounds with a professional boxer glamorous then it's actually "bloody" hard work - and quite dangerous! We sparred for a while and although Eisa "the Arabian Warrior" Aldah was pulling his punches, he still had a bit of agression going on. I've also been covering the Masters six-a-side football tournament featuring players such as Frank 'Wheresaburds' MacAvennie, Mark Walters and John Barnes.

I've also had visitors since the last time I wrote: Chris and Fiona came out for 10 days.

We went to a Friday Brunch, which is Dubai tradition. It involves paying a small fee and being served all the food and alcohol you can drink. And I don't just mean pints of Stella Artois, I mean Champagne, Mojitos, wine, beer... Food wise we're talking, lobster, scallops, steak, sushi, pasta, meatloaf, pan-fried chicken in Jim Beam sauce... etc, etc. Scrumptious.

We also took a couple of days out of Dubai and drove to Muscat, the capital of Oman - despite Fiona being initially apprehensive because of the old Middle Eastern adage that is "terrorism".

Anyway, having received a travel diary from Paul and Lyndsey before leaving for Dubai last August, I have been writing in it whenever I've left the emirate. Below is the diary entry for Muscat:

"...we experienced some authentic Arabia, opposed to the man-made monolithic skyscrapersof Dubai.

A six-and-a-half hour drive got us to the Omani capital, but finding our accommodation would have likely taken us a further six hours had we not asked a taxi driver to take us there.

We stayed at the Oman Diving Centre and on arrival we all concurred that the long drive had been worth it. As the taxi we were following slowly climbed the twisting trail through the mountainside, getting higher and higher into the clouds, all we could see in all directions was more mountains. They seemed never ending. Car morale was at an all-time low [Fiona's terrorism fear was probably at an all-time high as we were following an Arab driver out into the middle of nowhere].

When we reached the summit and started our descent, we caught a glimpse of the Gulf of Oman through two mountain faces and our mouths fell open in awe.

To the left of us, between two huge jagged rocks, sat a small paradisical cove; white sandy beaches enticing a gentle tide of clear aqua-blue water up onto the shore, an old wooder boat docked and bobbing calmly just out at sea, a handful of fishermen wading in from the boat with the catch of the day, and a cluster of beautiful wooden beach huts.

The beach huts, on closer inspection, were simply sublime. The whole scene was exactly how I imagined the deserted island in Alex Garland's The Beach to look, but the huts gave an exotic edge to our Arabian adventure.

Myself and Matt [for he also had friends visiting and the six of us made it a road-trip holiday] shared Hut 26. The front door locked from the outside with a padlock and from the inside with a wooden slat slipped through the opposing doors. As for the bathroom, it was outside, but by far the most accomodating outdoor washroom I've ever showered in.

With rocks and boulders cemented together to form the walls and a peaked roof made from bamboo canes, it would be easy to believe the hut was as neanderthalic as it looked, but on investigation, the entire hut was air-conditioned, fully lit and was even stocked with a mini bar (One Beer: 1.5 Omani Riyals, £1.70).

With the temperature reaching five or six degrees higher than Dubai, we spent most of our first afternoon going from beach-lounger to ocean and ocen to volleyball court.

The restaurant offered large portions of food for very reasonable prices and were it not for the plague of flies, the Thai Green Curry that I had would have been near-perfect. Indoor eating is the answer in Oman.

At night, included in the price of the beach hut, we were treated to a three-course buffet that included soup, salad, bread, fresh fish, lamb, rice, beef, creme caramel, jelly and chocolate cake.

The only added expense we faced was that of alcohol, but when you are drinking red wine, or a bottle of chilled beer, taken straight from your own personal mini-bar and paying less than you would in a bar in Glasgow let alone Dubai - and you are drinking it on a driftwood-assembled patio, looking at the stars and commenting on how "the constellations are upside down in this part of the world" and all the time basking in the surreal tranquillity of the silent Omani desert, it is hard to really complain too much."

So that was Muscat: a terrorism free paradise. To quote Chris afterwards: "I think the next time we come out, we'll just meet you in Oman". Two thumbs up.

That Was The Past Six Months That Was

[Found some old photos on my computer at work so thought I'd post them on here and give you a quick photo diary of the last six months. If I knew how to write captions I would - after all it's my job - but you will have to make do with separated paragraphs.]

FISK (November 11, 2006)

This is a photo of the award-winning author Robert Fisk. A Middle East correspondent for The Independent, Fisk was the first Western journalist to interview Osama bin Laden (bin Laden actually invited him to conduct further interviews and now, supposedly, refers to "Mr Robert" as "one of us".)

Fisk was speaking at a local bookstore in Dubai on the launch day of the paperback edition of his latest book: The Great War for Civilisation. The Conquest of the Middle East. Every journalist with an interest in world affairs seems to have read this book -- or at least attempted to read it, for at 1,334 pages it's a conquest in itself just to finish it. Anyway, he spoke, I bought and now I am reading.

Interesting anecdote: a year ago while studying at Uni, Robert Fisk, on a rare trip to the UK from his "home" in Lebanon, came to speak at Stirling University. Much fuss was made of this award-winning journalist coming to speak at our humble uni, but as far as myself and fellow Journalism Studies student Graham "Twiggy" Robinson were concerned he was just another journalist. I intended going (despite the lecture being held outwith class time!) and had convinced Twig that it would be good. Little did I realise that the Arctic Monkeys gig that I had been looking forward to for weeks was the same night. I had a dilemma: bin-Laden-interviewing, Independent-writing, internationally renowned journalist, or small unknown band who were destined for success?

It was an easy choice for a music lover who cared not for politics and knew nothing about the Middle East. Twiggy however battled; eventually, in a moment of clarity, deciding to stay behind and attend Fisk's lecture.

So, as I jumped and swayed while witnessing Britain's now-biggest band rip it up on stage at Glasgow's ABC, Graham "Twiggerton" Robinson... SLEPT IN for Fisk's 7pm lecture and missed the entire thing.

Fancy Dress Party (November 17, 2006)

Last Halloween. Having finished work at 6pm without a costume, two hours later I had the best outfit at the party - complete with hand-made shield and sword. Guess whose mother is a school teacher?

And I know what you're all saying: "You always go as Braveheart." Wrong. I've only been as Braveheart twice and this is the first time I've worn the facepaint - which incidentally did not come off for three days as Matt forgot to tell me that it was actual paint opposed to face paint. Work on November 1 was interesting as a guy with half a blue face dressed in a suit turned up to edit the paper.

CENTRAL PERK, DECEMBER 27, 2006

Yes, it's true. The only official, licensed Central Perk in the world isn't actually in New York City but rather Dubai. I thought I'd check it out, and I must say... It could not BE any more like the programme.

For the full story click here.


HUMMER (December 28, 2006)

This is me and my new car. It's a Humvee H3. I love it, makes me feel more of a man.

In actual fact, this isn't my car, but it was for a short period. We managed to blag a brand new Hummer through the Motoring pages of the newspaper. This photo was taken across the road from my office.

New Year's Celebration (Pre-Bells, Hogmanay 2006)

How do you prepare for a big night out? Sit and relax with a few beers? Play some games? We opted for the more energetic preparation of dancing like fools in our then-empty living room. The photo of Matt poised for a pirouette is what we in the industry call 'photographic perfection'.

New Year's Celebration (Post-Bells, NYD 2007)

After enthusiastically dancing in our living room, we went to The Irish Village, which was packed full of rowdy expats (including the elegant Ms Greaves and her housemate Christian). Our dancing was showcased to a larger audience -- quite literally as at one point myself and Mr Dogg sneaked up onto the empty stage and wowed the crowds, until we were accosted by a none-too-pleased security guard.

T-Dogg The Toothless Wonder, January 18, 2007



Remember I told you we were drinking bottomless Bollinger at the Burj Al Arab?

Tony 'The T-Dogg' Richardson had a bit of a mishap while climbing my villa's security fence. Not only did he lose his front tooth, he also turned Eugene's bathroom into a scene that would not look out of place in Hollywood gorefest Hostel. And while Tone got himself a shiny new tooth, all the sorry Irish occupant of the bathroom got was a new non-blood-stained toothbrush. Some folks have all the fun.

[More to come just as soon as I find the cable that attaches to my camera...]