Heading home

I’d like to start with an apology. I was wandering around Copenhagen airport on Monday, eagerly awaiting my flight home when the departures board, instead of offering me a gate number, flashed ‘delayed’ in my face. The setback was four solid hours and, added to the fact I had arrived early at the airport, I had six to kill.

If you have six hours in any airport in the world, you will eventually stumble into a WH Smith. I don’t know how it happens, but they’re everywhere. I did. I needed something to burn the hours away. I looked at the newspapers, but wasn’t in the mood for last Wednesday’s half-chewed copy of The Daily Mail: so I headed to the book section.

This is my apology. Charlotte Bronte, I am sorry for my actions. For, under the dung heap of John Grishams, Dan Browns and ‘Obama: My Path to the Tops’, I found your sacred Jane Eyre. Just two copies; tucked away behind the dross of sparkly authors and embossed titles.

In purchasing your wonderful novel under such conditions Charlotte, I degraded your book from one of the great works of English literature, to a ‘travel companion’. A juicy piece of trash full of sex, gore and adventure. Sentences that don’t make. Opinions that offend entire cultures. Pink, spangly lettering on the inside cover. A semi-erotic silhouette of the author on the back cover. ‘PHWAR, WHAT A READ – The Sun’ tattooed on the front. This is what your book became when I picked it off the shelf Charlotte, and I am so sorry for it.

Well, after six hours I was a third of the way through it. I’d also ransacked every shop in the airport. The gadget shop: with its random assortment of laptops and cameras. I’m pretty sure no one actually buys the expensive items; the shop probably keeps afloat on flogging UK/EU socket adapters alone. There’s always an entire wall of funky phone cases and colourful ipod socks, just to please the kids.

The souvenir shop is also a must. Every souvenir shop around the world must order from the same factory, but just changes the figurine inside the snow globe. I observed Copenhagen’s Mermaid, who no doubt has sat on that dusty shelf longer than the old girl on her rock this year. (She went to Shanghai and forgot all about us). T-shirts, keyrings, Carlsberg bottle openers. All generic with some mild pretence to Denmark stamped on them.

There’s a fine fish bar in the centre of the departures lounge too. No one was eating there except three bald, ageing blokes in suits. Clearly you had to have earned a healthy amount over a good period of time to oblige yourself with dining at that place. I moved on, and found a comfy place to read and eat my prepared sandwiches in peace.

When I flew to Paris in October and my flight was delayed, I was pissed off. I was pissed off because the French had realised they’d been working without interruption for about two whole months, and so a strike was in order. This delayed my flight, and I suppose I became a stereotypical Englishman that day. I can’t stand the French.

In contrast, on Monday I wasn’t pissed off. Even though my flight was delayed, no one can predict extreme bad weather. You just have to accept it. You don’t have to accept a load of whingeing lazy layabouts demanding extra cheese with their lunch portions or whatever it was they were complaining about.

My flight, which eventually took off, was not one that will stay in the memory for long. Sat in the middle of a chubby Dane reading Dan Brown and a gaunt boy I kept my head down with madam Bronte, happy in the knowledge I was going home.

Oh, and at customs I said ‘tak’ to the guy who handed back my passport, and ‘undskyld’ when I whacked my rucksack into someone’s arse in Sainsbury’s. Evidently old habits won’t die.

How to fix a bike wheel

Snow has descended upon Denmark. Actually as we are all too aware snow has blanketed most of northern Europe. From what I hear of Britain it’s oh so frightful. The media are scaring people with it; desperate parents are filling their non-paid days off with radio phone-ins about it (just happy for a natter); kids are playing in it.

In Denmark, they are simply putting up with it.

Three days ago I was cycling down to university when an enormous toothbrush on wheels roared past. The Danes have invested in road scouring devices to keep the ice away. It looked like an angry car wash. They also clear the cycle lanes, which means biking in the winter is as safe as any other time… or as dangerous.

So there I was romping down the road on my little speedster, when suddenly I encountered a part of pathway somewhat neglected by the council. I didn’t mind though, as I thought I was going through newly lain snow.

Wrong! I smacked my front wheel into a solid block of ice. Before I could react I fell forwards onto the crossbeam of the bike, and clipped a testicle in the process: eventually falling to a semi-crippled mess on the ice.

I’ll be honest; I was pretty sore, and so walked the rest of the way to uni. On parking my bike I hear a whistling sound however. Oh shit – of course, I now had a puncture to accompany my probable trip to Accident and Emergency.

I was in a rush so had to leave it, and walked back home in the dark that night, so I was in no mood to fix the tyre when I got to the flat. Three days later and I’ve decided to stick my neck out and fix the damn thing.

So, how to fix a bike tyre. (This is also my pitch to be the new Blue Peter presenter)

1) Locate which tyre has the puncture. This may sound silly, but last summer I removed the back wheel of my bike – gears and all – only to remember it was the front tyre that needed fixing.

2) Dismantle the wheel from the frame (as seen here). This is your first hand-to-bike contact, and initially you will be aware that a lot of grease and black road grime is all over your fingers. Don’t worry or panic. This is normal, and you will get used to it fairly quickly once the real manual labour begins.

3) Detach the rubber tyre and inner ring from the metal frame of the wheel. For this you will need to use some swanky lifting clips that bike shops pawn off to you for a ridiculous price. Apparently three is enough; the idea is that you lift off one side of the tyre before the other, and three is needed because of the circular nature of a wheel or something like that.

Anyway three clips are apparently easiest, and you can unclip your tyre without the least bit of hassle. I used a single, small flathead screwdriver, and a piece of plastic found in the cellar – as you can see here. Admittedly it’s harder to get the tyre off the wheel – 25 minutes harder to be exact – but the feeling of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile.

4) Find the puncture hole on the inner ring. I looked and looked and couldn’t find it but thought I knew where it was and, in the spirit of acting in any form whatsoever rather than standing idle, sealed the supposed puncture with glue and a patch.

5) This is the most important part. One must make sure the glue is half dried and the patch fully covers the puncture – something that I found to my detriment again last summer.

6) At this point you’re ready to put the tyre back on the wheel, and believe me if you think getting the thing off was hard work, putting it back on is like revising for a Russian sign language examination. It took me – fair to say – a good half an hour to wrestle it back on, but eventually I did it… amazingly just like my successful Russian sign language course.

7) Now you need a pump. I popped across the road to a bike shop where they have a public pump outside – oh how darling. Tyre all pumped up… and shit. The worst noise you can possibly hear after an hour of grappling with a wheel: seeping air.

8) So, repeat stages 3, 4 and 5. Unfortunately I couldn’t quite decide what was a puncture hole and what was simply a rough bit of rubber in the inner tube. I used six different patches trying to sure up that thing. It made a WWI shrapnel victim look like a morris dancer. This tubing was on it’s last… well valve I suppose.

9) Patched up and on the wheel, run across the street and whack on the pump and: air. Great stuff. I decided to give it one more chance, but sadly my luck ran out. As I stuck the screwdriver back in under the tyre for the millionth time I heard a rip, and suddenly a whoopy cushion of remaining air vibrated out all over my hand. I had ripped the tube.

So that was a waste of an hour and a half of my life. I still don’t know if I found the right puncture or not, but tomorrow I think I’ll just go buy a new tube. And what have I got to show for my exploits: raw finger ends, black hands, grime under my fingernails, and a suppressed feeling of my own uselessness.

I’d have never made it as a caveman.

Cow

Exactly a month ago I was sat in sunny Barcelona with a paella scoop on the spoon in my right hand and an ice-cold beer in my left. Today, I’ve been sat in my cosy room bashing away at my keyboard in an attempt to erect a reasonable essay for my course.

It’s sleeting outside and I’m getting pseudo cabin fever sat here by my desk in my pants, so I think a blog post is in need.

Well… what has happened over the last four weeks. (This is the stage when someone says “tell me something interesting about yourself” and your mind goes black) A lot has happened over the last four weeks, but to be honest I think I’ll focus on the last couple of days.

For example, it’s getting colder and colder here now that autumn has given up. People are all nice and wrapped up in their woollen winter clothes. However, one breed of human is bucking the trend: the joggers.

Oh yes, can there be anything more exhilarating than feeling your skin shatter as you do your third lap of a frozen pond, the icy air battering your face? No, there cannot. To make it worse, joggers still insist on wearing tight, spandex looking skins to show off their amazing flat stomachs and bulging thighs – not that I’ve been looking, obviously.

The most annoying thing about joggers though is their traffic light behaviour. Us normal people are happy to stand and wait – like the red man tells us to do – straight backed, calm, hands by your sides. We’re good citizens that follow a code of conduct in place for our own health and safety. But no, joggers insist on running on the spot like some ridiculous Power Ranger on hot coals. Got to keep moving.

Yesterday one of these offset branches of the species was stood at a crossing with me. While I was stood, she of course was flapping around trying to keep her heart rate up or burn some calories or something of the sorts.

Anyway, there must have been a problem with the traffic lights, because the green man forgot to show during two consecutive cycles. It was brilliant. I didn’t mind the wait, because old leggy here next to me was beginning to grind herself down into the pavement below. She must have been knackered by the time it went green.

When I got in last night – after an intense library workout (who needs a gym when you have a library) – I was walking up the stairs to my apartment when I noticed something different about my route. No, I hadn’t accidentally stumbled into the basement (basement? That should definitely read cellar). Instead, there was a slight change to the décor of the staircase.

The woman below has changed her doormat.

Oh god lord I know what you’re thinking. What was it like? Does it suit the door? Is it better than the old one?

Well, I must say it looks pretty damn snazzy if you ask me. I do have one problem with it though. For the last few months this old bint from downstairs has padded the entrance to her welcome abode with a doggy doormat. The old one had a silhouette of a terrier on it.

This coincided with the terrier within the flat. And what a little shit of a thing it is too. I’ve seen it twice and twice thought it was a yappy little pointless sack of organs loosely constrained within a matted pouch of malting gristle. Surprisingly lifelike to the doormat in touch I imagine. God I’d love to scrape my shows in it’s little gobby face.

Anyway, with the doormat gone I wonder if the dog has pissed off too. Unfortunately the replacement doormat – snazzy as it is – does not present a desirable alternative, as you can see here. There is no way that woman could drag a cow up two flights of stairs.

Well that was the last two days really. Apart from me locking myself out of the library for half an hour. Oh, and subjecting some friends to utter torture watching the England v France game on Wednesday.

Actually there’s a point. Four of us were watching the game, and there was a couple sitting opposite us. I say couple, they both looked about 16 – maybe a first date? Two things bothered me:

1) The guy wasn’t watching the football. What an absolute disgrace. He was devoting all his attention of his little ‘on the side’.

2) My god how much attention can a guy give a girl? He wouldn’t keep his face away from her. The poor strumpet could hardly breathe. He kept one sweaty paw over her shoulder the entire night, clinging to her like a Kuala bear to a tree. Every time she tried to move he went in for a good old smooch.

God I feel old. Anyway time for a few pints of ale down in town…

Barcelona – Day 3

Quite simply, what a day. This was my view from the third tier press box at the Nou Camp. I could hardly see the players. Can’t imagine how it must have been for the 7,000 FC Copenhagen fans right at the top of tier six.

So, this is why I went to Barcelona. It was well worth it. People say FC Barcelona are the best team in the world, with arguably the best stadium in the world. Well, the former certainly, but maybe not the latter. The place becomes a real labyrinth as you try and manoeuvre around hundreds of journalists looking for the press conference room, before alighting four flights to you gantry position in the gods.

The match itself was pretty intense. It’s gotten almost cliché to praise Barcelona for their attacking approach. To be honest watching on the TV you take it for granted. However, watching ‘in the flesh’ is simply incredible. You see every movement and detail that not even 3D HDTV can pick up. The sheer intelligence of the players – and I know at this point some may be thinking that all footballers are dumb idiots who massacre the name ‘genius’ – was so beautiful to see. Being a good team can win you a match. Synchronised off the ball movement can win you a championship.

But back to the football later. I started the day quite late, and so hopped on the Metro down to a Catalonian art museum in the city. It was one of those museums that has collected a jumble of art throughout the ages and attempts to bunch the pieces together in similar time periods, yet evidently different movements.

I began with Romaic art, but on stepping into the first room to see a load of crumbling tablets and statues I turned round and walked out. I’ve seen enough semi-deformed statues of naked adonises thank you very much. So, instead I went over to the Gothic and Renaissance Art section: big mistake. It was a hoard of religious billboards. Minarets of the Virgin Mary, a painted plank of wood with religious scripture on it, and yet one thing that really caught my eye: this little beauty here.

I think it’s some sort of middle ages ‘this is your life’. The monk – let’s just call him Benedict for Papal reasons – stands in the middle, with the passages of his life around the outside. Top left, he has just been born. Top right he is a kid and being educated, while middle left he is receiving some robe or something. Middle right a post-adolescent Benedict is being received properly into the church, and yet it all goes downhill from here. Poor Benni is ill on the bottom left, and appears to be receiving the Last Rites. And bottom right, the people of Renaissance Catalonia have clearly had enough of his sickliness and godliness, and execute the poor balding sod.

I also found this glorious Anglo Saxon depiction of Christ’s resurrection. Now, I’ve read my Bible, and at no point does it say Jesus sprung up from his tomb, killed the surrounding Roman guards and waved the flag of Saint George. Although of course they say a story loses a lot of it’s meaning when translated. Maybe I should learn Latin…







Yet, this is definitely my favourite piece from the Renaissance collection. As you can see, Saint George is half way through slaying the dragon, the moment where he becomes revered throughout our glorious land of England for his heroism and bravery. A master of his profession, Saint George is an example to follow, an embodiment of all that is English: fearless in the face of adversity, ridiculous health and safety regulations, and the gross slaughter of endangered species.

But if this little depiction of our great saviour is correct, I must seriously have to question the moral requirements for idol status in the middle ages. The dragon is tiny. Where do the bravery and vigour and all that chivalric bollocks come from if all you have to do is kill a lizard the size of a badger? A good old stamp would probably have done the trick. But no; wise old George knew that getting his spear all bloody and scaley would mean a heroes welcome on his return. What a con man.

One of the great things I love about paintings is the clear rebellious cheek many artists include in their work. One ‘genre’ of this cheek is what I like to call the anonymous individual. Usually in a crowd scene there is a direct attention for the persons in the painting to look upon. In this particular painting, it’s some declaration or signing of something or summat like that. All protagonists are facing generally the same direction, giving importance to the focus of the scene. And yet, if you look closely, there’s always one person who goes against the grain. Here, while the beautiful ladies and the regal gentleman gaze left out of shot, some promiscuous little pompous devil in an orange and blue waistcoat is most certainly checking out the cleavage of the girl next door. Suits you sir.

Well the rest of the art museum consisted of a brief period of Spanish impressionism (slightly too late to the European scene) before Picasso and his crew took over; and what was once such a lovely period of artistic skill and talent died in a pit of emotionless ‘challenges’.

Right, back on with the football. Here was my office for the evening. We were allocated prime half way line seats in the press box, at the top of the ‘main’ stand, yet only three tiers up. I say ‘only’, the rest of the stadium has six tiers. The view was amazing, the atmosphere incredible, and the FC Copenhagen fans proudly making their presence heard in the balcony of the Barcelona sky.

The match itself was one of the most petrifying experiences I have witnessed since Arsenal played Leeds at Elland Road back in 2003. Like Arsenal, every time Barcelona got the ball they looked dangerous, threatening to score at any opportunity. And of course the wee little Argentine Messi bagged the opener, a sweet goal from outside the FCK penalty area. Before the game I thought to myself that hearing 70,000 Spaniards erupt in adoration would be deafening; and yet, the sound when Messi scored was one more of expectation than of full-out joy.

Maybe it was because Copenhagen were losing, making me feel extra critical, but I was beginning to see behind the mirage of the Nou Camp that is depicted on TV. Much like the stereotypical Manchester United fans at Old Trafford, FC Barcelona supporters attend matches to be entertained, rather than stir their team up into a winning frenzy. There was a disappointing pleasure of acceptance I heard, when Messi scored. The noise wasn’t particularly loud, if anything it was more of a chuckle at how someone could be so good at the game, and that they owned him.

What struck me most about the Barcelona fans however was their moaning. Yes, it is widely accepted that the Spanish style of football is less physically accepting than what is played in the north of Europe. But when 70,000 whistles resonate round an enormous bowl because poor little Andrés got tripped over was actually quite appalling. There was a definite sense of ‘don’t you dare touch our players inappropriately’. When Dame N’Doye – Copenhagen’s lead front man – got booked for a foul on Mascherano, the whole place went up in uproar; far louder than when either goal was scored. Now, I know I like a good whinge now and again, but these Spaniards didn’t half bloody moan.

So yes, what an amazing experience – apart from the Catalan mentality I suppose. Here is me doing my best impression of a Lego man, as the players come out for the second half. And what a half it was; FCK were so close to scoring as N’Doye hit the crossbar. To have scored a goal at the Nou Camp would have topped the night for me, but I had to wait for a quick interview with Gerard Piqué to really set the grin on my face in stone.

Barcelona – Day 2

Well at 2am this morning I finally got into my hotel room. What a fiddle yesterday was, but today more than made up for it. I woke at about 9:30 without any idea what time it was, seeing as my room has no windows. By 10am I was mixing with the tourists in the centre of the city, trying to navigate my way to the Picasso museum.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though every other foreigner in the city was heading to the same place. The narrow streets were overcrowded and when I eventually got to the museum entrance, the queue was 200 deep at least. Sack that – let’s go for a wonder.

So I did, and stumbled across some old blokes playing boules in a park. They all seemed rather chirpy and clearly at ease with the world. What stuck me though was how smartly dressed they all were. Ironed shirts and pullovers, one guy even in a suit. Clearly today was the bi-weekly Barcelona pensioners’ boules tournament. What a way to spend the day.

I quickly realised my mistake of forgetting sunglasses for this trip. Copenhagen now is pretty damn chilly, but certainly not Barcelona in October; thought it isn’t unbearably hot. I passed two guys – pale, blonde, fat and most obviously Danish – walking through the city with shorts on. They were screaming ‘tourists’.

After a visit to a museum of 20th Century Russian art – grossly out of place but interesting all the same – I clambered the big hill in Barcelona to the Olympic Stadium, which housed the 1992 Olympic athletics events. The picture here shows the typical bowl like any other stadium. However, what is most interesting is the outside, and in fact the whole shell of the stadium itself. Most unlike the ‘modern’ stadiums with huge steel structures and glass panelling, Barcelona’s Olympic Stadium is built with stone to form a classical Greco-Roman style, with turrets and gateways and open social areas. It is completely opposite to the Nou Camp, which I will now get on to.

Oh my good giddy aunt! I have just come back from one of those life experiences you will never forget: this was on a par with the first kiss, the first ‘time’, and yes… even the first verruca. Sitting in a press conference in the deep heart of the Nou Camp, before heading off to pitch side for one-to-one interviews. Sitting in the dug out is one thing, but having a sneak peek into FC Copenhagen’s dressing room is something else. It was enormous. In fact, it was almost too big. You could lose half a squad in that place.

I had a chance to sit at the back of the dug out and reflect on where I was. I appreciate it a lot, and of course realise what a privilege it is to be here. As my fellow reporter Torkil deduced, there are 4,600 FCK fans who would kill to have been where I was today.

A great day in Barcelona. Now let’s just hope for a 3-0 thrashing tomorrow.

Barcelona – Day 1

This post shouldn’t really be called ‘Barcelona’, as it’s 20:23 and I’m still not in bloody Spain. France, you pathetic moaning bunch of lazy individuals… I will get back to you later.

I am currently sat in the wonderfully modern Charles De Gaulle Airport, Paris. It has taken me fourteen long hours to get here, after I woke up at 6am full of excitement for the few days ahead. A bitter Copenhagen air cracked my face as I walked through the governmental grounds to the train station, clad in my new suit and shoes so shiny I accidentally caught a glimpse up an old woman’s knickerbockers from their polished reflection while queuing for my train ticket.

Of course, I didn’t actually… she was wearing trousers.

A four-hour train journey up to Gothenburg went as swimmingly as… well let’s just say it went swimmingly. I arrived at the internationally renowned Landvetter Airport, Sweden. And what an airport it is too; I should know: I spent five hours in the damn thing.

‘But Joe, why spend so long in an airport, and yet wake up at 6am? Why not have a lie in and be refreshed for your journey across Europe?’ Well, why indeed. (Excuse me at this point while I clear up the spleen that has just vented all over my keyboard)

I’ll say this nice and clear: those miserable, whingeing, adolescent, ungrateful, work-shy, quivering-bottom-lipped, floppy haired, greasy haired, cigarette devouring, begrudge-thy-neighbour, useless French tossers. How dare you delay my flight for three hours while you ponce around with your banners and mottos as though it’s your right. I’ve been so stressed out today hoping I can catch my connecting flight – both with Air France – that my hair line has receded so far back I doubt I will have to shave my shoulders ever again.

So, roughly forty minutes ago I was waiting to depart the plane, when the lovely stewardess on the tannoy explained there weren’t enough staff to trawl the stairs over to connect with the plane door. Ten minutes later and one solitary, surly looking bloke moped over and attached the stairs. I bolted out and looked around – we’d parked in what looked like an aeroplane graveyard: hundreds of them, with no buildings. So, five minutes later and we all clamber onto a shuttle bus, ten minutes after that and I fall into a man on his mobile as I try to squeeze past the garlic muncher and out of the bus.

By this point I’m knackered, hungry, sweating heavily and stressed out. I quickly gamble into the terminal and greedily devour the departures board: Barcelona, 20:20 – now delayed, 22:00.

All that stress for nowt. All that running for nowt. And, if you can see by this picture, if you wish to complain like the poor man here, you will get nowt in reply. So, thanks France. I realise how unashamedly inappropriate I have been in mentioning a whole cheese board of criticisms; but if you’re going to strike, I think I may be justified with the other stereotypes I have mentioned.

Ah, only 75 minutes to go now. I wonder if they sell berets, or cheap red plonk anywhere…

Shower Skills

The most amazing thing has just happened in the shower. No, I have not found a third nipple or uncovered a way of washing my hair without leaving half a bee hive in the plug hole, instead, I have become witness to shower skills.

Now, you may be thinking ‘oh, shower skills? what is this absurd paradigm?’ Well, to put it simply, shower skills is something every bloke on this planet will try at least once. It’s the art of catching the soap on your foot as you drop it – ladies, I know what you’re thinking: ‘what the fu-?’

It may sound absolutely ridiculous, but the sense of achievement when you successfully ‘catch the soap’ (not a euphemism in the slightest) is one of utter euphoria.

Let me just explain the reasoning behind it. There’s nothing more annoying (well, there is a lot of things more annoying but it’s just an expression I suppose), than having a shower in a cubicle without a soap rack. Where do you put the shampoo and soap and that needlessly smelly Lynx stuff? The answer is sadly on the floor, which can lead to slippage from accidental stepping and serious bending activities.

I have a shower like this. By catching the soap on your foot, you have control of it until you need it again – it can’t run off anywhere – while there’s no need to bend over and risk pushing your arse against the cold side of the shower cubicle: always a shock.

Now we have delineated the reasoning behind such an activity, it would be useful to explain the method. Having lavishly soaped oneself, the drop to the foot is important. Adding extra velocity by throwing will not help your cause. You have to lightly drop vertically, above the foot. The foot itself must be raised, with the toes bent outwards to provide a soap-sized nest.

You are now ready to catch your soap – guys stay with me, this is as tedious as trying to explain the offside rule, I know. As the soap reaches the intended raised foot – and at this point I must stress not to raise both feet at the same time, by making sure you’ve selected the appropriate foot before commencing the operation – you should begin to lower the foot in relation to the soap (but ever so slightly slower). This provides a cushion for the dropping object. The result: the soap should nestle nicely in the newly configured indent of the foot about one inch from ground level.

I know this may sound easy, but it isn’t. It takes years of practice, and even then a full soap catch is very rare to come by. I’m writing this now because this is the first time I’ve managed it in over for weeks, and therefore comes as an event for me on a Monday without lectures, social life, or any vague sense of wellbeing whatsoever.

New Bike

I’ve been here seven weeks. Approximately six weeks and five days ago, I told myself I must buy a bike. Fitness, time reduction and financial scruples were all factors in my determination to purchase a magical two-wheeled transporter. Well, yesterday, I finally bought one. I’m quick to act.

This is the stallion here. Just look at it. Set me back a wee bit, but no doubt it’s worth it. I could have got a decrepit old horsebox for £30 if I’d wanted, but decided to invest big. The reason: I want to enjoy cycling and actually get out of the city with it. I can’t quite do this on a 1970s knackered city bike with a flimsy wicker basket strapped to the front.

Today I took the new beast out for a spin. Initial results are quite positive. As you can see from the picture it’s quite a hunch-mobile, but I’m used to it. The wheels (brand new thank you Josefine) are pretty solid though. Cobbled roads and high pavements are a real pain in the arse. And may I add to take that literally; my lower pelvis is so sore I feel like those piles have returned.

So the positives: it’s fast, reasonably light and will do the job on long excursions. And now we can get to those lovely negatives:

- The seat: Harder than a 30-minute boiled egg, it’s so high I feel like a de-livered Prometheus chained to his rock, unable to hop off. In fact, I’m pretty sure the point nearly poked my own liver at one point during disembarking.

- The brakes: Needs quite a squeeze to penetrate any sort of life out of them, but generally OK. The confusing thing is their positioning: vertical rather than horizontal. I keep flapping wildly at thin air in vain attempts to slow down for fast-moving pensioners.

- The handlebars: They look pretty damn cool, and are amazing for straights. However, a bit narrow: in fact, any vigorous uphill climb that requires arm assistance usually results in slalom-style wobbling.

- The gears: Oh my word they’re situated on the diagonal crossbeam. Who the hell put them there? When I try to change gear it looks like I’m scratching my testicles. I still haven’t figured out how to use them properly (the gears, not my testicles) – they remind me of Top Gear’s infamous ‘flappy panelled gearboxs’ (again, the gears).

Now, of course it seems like I’m whining a bit… and maybe I am. But to be honest I’m chuffed to bits with the little beauty. In fact, I was so delighted with my purchase, that I decided a tad of supermarket shopping would be adequate reward.

120DKK later, and a full backpack, I was cycling back to my flat from the supermarket with a loaf of bread in a shopping bag, dangling off my right handlebar. I took to quick left turn onto some cobbles near Christianshavn tube station, which of course altered my centre of gravity somewhat. The bag swung into my front wheel, and as you can see wrapped itself lovingly round my tyre and breaks.

Because my front breaks were now rendered inactive, I couldn’t stop immediately. After ten yards little light brown fluff started flying from a hole newly carved in the bag. My loaf of bread was being sprayed all over the road.

When I finally stopped and checked out the damage I just had to take some photos. Luckily no one was around to confirm my utter embarrassment, which otherwise would be non-existent seeing as I definitely wasn’t wearing a helmet, sun glasses and reflective bicycle clips at the time.




Well with the loaf now pretty much ruined, I had no qualms with shoving it into my already crammed bag. The damage, as you can see, doesn’t look too bad. But I know that when it comes to me settling down to a lovely breakfast of marmite on toast in four days time, the taste of grit and oil may very well upset my morning.

False Tourism

Imagine peering west up the Champs-Elysees from the Louvre, and instead of resting your eyes on the magnificent Arc de Triomphe, your view settles on that crappy motorway junction behind it. Or, rounding the corner of Rome’s Forum to greet the Colloseum, only to satiate your viewing pleasure with the world’s largest roundabout. I dare say you’d be pretty peeved, maybe even a little miffed, if these landmarks in European tourism were suddenly taken away from you.

Well, this has happened in Copenhagen. The Little Mermaid, although certainly not as famous as the Eiffel Tower, Athens’ Acropolis or the Big Dipper at Blackpool, is Denmark’s jewel in the crown for tourists. Well… apart from the royal crown jewels obviously. Millions of tourists every year come to Copenhagen, and on each neatly organised to-do list are the bullet points:

- Royal Palace
- Christiania
- Little Mermaid

Now, you can’t exactly shift a palace that has stood for centuries in the middle of the city, nor can you remove an entire area of the capital. However, what it seems you CAN do is bonk off a small statue to the highest bidder.

That’s right, Copenhagen’s beloved mermaid is currently living it up in Shanghai; holidaying for eight months as the centrepiece for the Danish contribution of a world exhibition or something like that… the slapper.

How dare she piss off and leave us here in rainy Denmark all alone. It smacks of utter cheek that someone can pawn off the statue. What makes things worse however, is that the Danes have hardly realised she’s gone.

This is the current scene at the site of the Mermaid’s rock. As you can see, the scene is picturesque, a view overlooking the opposite harbour, while Copenhagen’s famous castile lurks just out of shot. What a beautiful vie- wait… hang on a minute, what’s that youtube video on that enormous projector screen doing there, blocking out the view? What, is that a live feed to the Mermaid 5,000 miles away? Quick Beryl get the camera, you’ve got to take this!

And yet, even though the Mermaid isn’t there, just on the left you can see people selling Little Mermaid figurines. About £5.50 each if you’re interested: postcards £1.50. Figurines, to commemorate that wonderful afternoon when you stared at a screen watching other people staring at the very same thing you travelled all this bloody way to stare at.

Why not just Google Image it?

The sheer cheek to sell these things overlooking the naked crime scene is remarkable, what’s more amazing is that – of course – people buy them in their droves.

I’m thinking of setting up a tourist’s trinket stall myself actually: small-scale figurines of the Yorkshire Dales’ most fascinating dry stone wall designs.

Speed Dating – Danish Style

Last week I was sat in an editorial meeting for the University of Copenhagen’s newspaper. We were discussing ideas about the theme of our next issue, ‘finding love in Denmark’. Targeted primarily to international students as an English speaking paper, I suggested – jokingly – that speed dating would be a great way of finding Danish love. Our editor wrote the idea on the white board.

Shit…

So, four days later I found myself booking a slot in the 18-26 category of Copenhagen’s main speed dating company. The premise: write an article about how to meet the Danes. What better way is there to get to know the Copenhagen youth of today than talking to random girls for 6 whole minutes each?

I haven’t written the article yet. To be honest I’m stumped on my ‘angle’ towards it. However, I am of course loyal to my blog, and so have documented the action of the evening below… enjoy.

5:30
Get home from uni and quickly put the water on boil. Cook a filling but relatively boring meal of rice, eggs, veg and sausages (less washing up for all concerned) and scoff it in front of the laptop, trying to figure out where the ‘venue’ is for the adventure to follow.

6:00
Quick shower to get rid of that old book smell I must have picked up in the English library earlier in the day. Rummage through cupboard looking for something to wear.

6:15
Shirt: the only one not crumpled in a heap will have to do. It was once ironed – long ago – but has now taken up the ‘flat because I’ve been squashed into a bag with 20kg of other clothes for a flight to Denmark’ kind of look.

6:30
Find a bottle of aftershave in my left running shoe. So THAT’S where I put it for protection during the flight.

6:45
Walk out the door, get down the stairs and onto the street outside.

6:46
Forget my map and wallet, turn round, enter my building, go up the stairs, into my room, pick up my map, wallet and… oh yes my phone, and walk out again.

7:00
Enter the bar of doom.

It’s quite a scary thing walking into a bar, knowing you’re about to be judged by a load of strangers. Of course they’re in the same boat, but you forget about that once you’re in. The ‘dating’ would be held upstairs, away from the main restaurant where NORMAL people were happily chomping away at their meals. A woman looked at me and noticed my little name badge on the breast pocket of my shirt: I turned away quickly.

The actual speed dating was not bad at all to be perfectly honest. I was petrified at the start, but soon you get into a rhythm. I think, being from England, I may have had an advantage over the other guys – not that I was playing survival of the fittest in my mind or anything. It’s simply that I have at least some different things to talk about.

The worst thing was the first introduction, where I felt compelled to apologise every time for not being able to speak Danish. I know three sentences, maybe four, and that’s it:

1) “Jeg hedder Joe”
To be honest this is practically a redundant statement, as my nametag proves beyond explanation what I’m called.

2) “Jeg kommer fra England”
Great, this is probably assumed by the bewildered lady in front of me by the fact that my first sentence lacked all the sophistication and pronunciation of a real Dane.

3) “Jeg kan ikke tale dansk”
You don’t say…

So, with these killer sentences primed neatly in my arsenal, I set forth into the world of speed dating.

And what an odd wilderness it is. The women get to stay put on their own table, while the blokes are whistled round the room, chasing the next lady like a randy Restoration fop.

We all had cards, so that after each date we could write down the other half’s name, a description for oneself to keep, and tick either ‘ja’ or n’ej’ in the box provided. I appreciate this may all seem boring and obvious, especially to you experienced daters, but I must say holding a really interesting and nice chat with someone for six minutes, only to tick the ‘nej’ box after you’ve moved on, basically gives you that sense of power not yielded in other forms of social interaction. One can be very two-faced, and get away with it.

I would like to have said that in the end I felt a bit of a Richard Gere, swimming through the ladies with a beat in my step and a glint in my eye. But no, maybe more like Bottom, as Titania seduces him to all the confidence in the word, while the audience look on in pitying bemusement.

New Phone

Ah with new places and new friends comes a new mobile phone. This is my utterly stunning ‘Nokia e5d7something’ that I bought two days ago. As you can see it’s a pretty hunky piece of machinery. Sixteen and a half of its twenty buttons work to perfection, the colour screen offers a rainbow of… colour, and the sheer weight of it means you know when it’s in your pocket.

Because my current phone is an ignorant sod that doesn’t accept Danish sim cards, I was obliged to get this stunner in order to control my luxurious credit spending on cool ringtones, saucy pictures and late night chat lines.

I bought it from a run-down second hand shop. It looked quite good behind the definitely-not-secure security cabinet. The guy gave me the phone (well I say gave, he winched it up from the case with a heavy-duty crane and gently lowered it into my hands, to which I buckled under the weight but kept my footing) and rattled off a general spec. Colour screen, Bluetooth and a voice recorder that has a one-minute memory capacity. I knew I was looking at the dog’s bollocks.

What clinched the deal for me was that it had a camera. There’s something reassuring about having a camera in your pocket, just in case a fat woman gets scared by a pigeon and you’re on hand to shoot the after effects.

However, as you can see from this photo, there is no camera. What I thought was a lensed portal to the endless frivolity of the photographic world was actually a small hole, so you can thread a piece of string through the top of the phone.

I’ve just about recovered from the sheer disgruntlement of the situation. Below is the fact file for this majestic model, just in case you’re tempted yourselves:




The Nokia Brick

Colour: Faded silver, for that rustic look.

Weight: Heavy, the cheap man’s bludgeoning tool of the 21st century.

Size: Let’s face it girls, with this in my pocket, I’m pleased to see everyone.

Buttons: Chunky and certainly 3-dimensional, could poke an eye out.

Battery: Long life, but of course heats up to magma levels when on charge.

Infra Red: Probably, but will never be tried out.

Bluetooth: Lack of memory and camera means it is redundant.

Charger: Typical Nokia, will break in three months.

Danish Words

Quite simply, this post will be about the wonderful similarities the Danish language has with our own English tongue. Over the last three weeks I have collected a pitiful clump of photos of words and signs I have found while wandering through Copenhagen. I have tried to add an explanation as to why I took each photo, but to be honest I’m not promising much.


This is what I call my sister when her real name gets boring. I had no idea it was an actual word in the Danish language until I saw these letters lashed against the side of a building. Thanks to my Danish language classes I now know it means: ‘language’…. Rather disappointing really, I was expecting ‘bloated noise machine’.


It said DONG. I took the photo. It amused me at the time.


A load of Swedish-looking people got off this bus. I love the way the ‘fart’ has been cunningly blended into another word – ha, as though we’d never find out. It means Scandinavian Touring, which again is pretty dull compared to my thrill of finding it. Actually, when I took the photo I was smiling quite a bit, and two women at a bus stop noticed my stupid grin. They must have thought I was ‘bus spotter’ (a less glamorous but also less isolated breed of train spotter) and had just secured on camera a real corker.


This annoyed me. Don’t called your shop ‘7 Eleven’, and then put a sign below saying ‘open 24 hours’. It’s disgusting.


Apparently a posh, swanky restaurant, no one with any real idea of the English language would call their business ‘Gorm’. My jaw dropped when I saw the name…


If we had cooler names for our religious texts then more people would go to church. I’m fairly sure of this although I haven’t actually done any research into my hypothesis, as yet. However, if I had the opportunity to read a Lightning Bible rather than the Old Knackered Testament, attend a Rambunctious Church and sing Sassy Hymns, I’d be more interested in getting to know the beard upstairs. Think about it Mr. Pope.


Out of the corner of my eye I thought this said ‘bog roll’. I then assumed it said ‘bog and roll’, as though it was an instruction one must follow. In fact, it means bookshelves: it was a bookshop. I didn’t stop to look inside, but am sure I could have maintained the lexical similarity between the English and the Danish words, if only I’d found some Woolf.

The Two Pillars of Danish Civilisation

Two things have epitomised my first fortnight in Copenhagen. Both are seemingly crucial to the day-to-day living of Danish life. They affect what people do and how they fit into city society. I am of course talking about the weather and bikes.

The Weather:
I have been in this city now fifteen days. It has rained at least ten. In fact, it has monsooned (definitely a word) half of those. No wonder the canals are always full: it’s like a tsunami-hit Venice when the gods open up here.

People keep saying (mostly Australians actually) that surely I’m used to such shitty (shiddy) weather, what with me coming from miserable old Britain. No – what I am used to is the mild drizzle of Manchester that occurs maybe once every four hours, or the bitter wind that whacks Leeds in the face. I am NOT familiar – thank you – with feeling like a bedraggled drowned rat after three minutes of walking under an umbrella.

Actually that’s another thing – I used an umbrella two days ago for the first time in years…… felt rather cosmopolitan.

The BBC weather website doesn’t have a clue either. The weather can turn here very quickly. It may as well just say ‘Friday: Stick your head out of the window. If it’s dry, take this opportunity and get outside now!’

I like to think the picture above shows how much the weather and bikes are so closely connected in this city. If it’s dry, the bikes come out. If it rains, the cycle paths become part of the gutter system.

Bikes:
I think everyone between the ages of six and seventy-five has a bike. Apart from me, but that’s merely out of laziness not to go and find one. It’s strange watching old people ride bikes – like when you see a really old gimmer driving a car – you’re just not quite confident that they’re in complete control of their vehicle.

Bikes are a must in this city though. The roads are so wide, traffic so slow and cycle paths so plentiful that to not have a bike is to miss out big time. I’ve almost been hit twice by bikes. The problem is, the Danes drive of the right hand side. Obviously the Brits drive on the proper hand side, but it can sometimes still be confusing when crossing a road.

Now, I appreciate you’re meant to look both ways – those hedgehog adverts weren’t on telly for no reason – but it is subconsciously automatic for me to look right when on the edge of the pavement. This is merely because I am used to doing so, as of course it would be stupid to think anything would be travelling my way from the left. I haven’t been hit yet, but I’m working on it.

Plus I haven’t seen a cyclist crash or fall off yet. Then again, winter’s coming…

Culture Shock

In answer to any questions:

Yes, the city is amazing. I’m having a lovely time. My course is good and so is my room. The people are friendly and all speak English, so I am having no problems with the language. Luckily I have managed to get a sort of job. It’s expensive but I’m getting by OK. Thanks for asking.

Now, on with the blog.

‘Dav, jeg hedder Joe. Jeg kommer fra England.’ – This is how I of course introduce myself now, after living in Copenhagen for a week. It is right to assume that poorly clumped together sentences like these are meaningless when in fact all you want to do is buy a toothbrush. I can’t imagine many bus conductors care what my name is when I’m standing there with a handful of unrecognisable coins, trying to pronounce Kongens Nystrov. Admittedly it is all pretty frivolous when everyone down to the supermarket trolley boys can speak your language. And yet, when you meet someone who CAN’T speak English, the satisfaction of trying to communicate is wonderful.

I experienced this last night, at a tasty little football match between Denmark (that’s where I’m living at the moment by the way) and Germany (I could put something pithy about the Germans but it’s all been done before). Sitting right at the top of Parken, the national stadium of Denmark, a burly German bloke with a beer in each hand sat next to me, and asked if I could take his picture.

“Of course” I said in my best English. He looked at me with utter confusion, and asked me in Danish if I spoke Danish. This was it, my test. My first interaction with Danish society and I was in fact staring at a German with not a clue how to speak English. – At this point I’d like to add, Danish in a Yorkshire accent ain’t too understandable – I replied in terrible tongue that I spoke ‘lidt dansk’, and he asked me where I was from! Oh the feeling of understanding something I would never have dreamt of knowing three days ago.

In the end I took his picture and pissed off.

This was all pre-kick off. During the game I was sat in possibly the worst (or best if you sway that way) seat in the house. To my right was a shaven headed German with massive shorts, a black t-shirt and multiple piercings. To my right sat two Argentineans in the blue and white stripes. To be quite honest, I wasn’t too interested in joining the Hitler Youth that day, so I turned and chatted (in English) to the Argies.

Heaven knows why they were there. Their team got tonked by the Krauts worse than us in the World Cup. And yet here they were cheering on the dansk. It was beautiful to see two nations joining forces to cheer against a team they had paid to see.

This was my first taste of Danish ‘culture’. My second came in the second half. I moved seat at half time to get away from… the smokers. You can smoke in a football stadium! Also, as the tubby bloke I met earlier was taking full advantage of, you can drink in the stands. And… possibly the greatest innovation of sporting spectator enjoyment: popcorn. I always thought the popcorn business rather stupidly limited its demographic to film goers. But no, some wise old bean on the continent realised the eighth instalment of the Twilight bandwagon just wasn’t enough to keep up revenues. The solution, sell your popcorn in places other than the Odeon.

Maybe this was the culture shock I’ve been warned about in various International Student lectures: The one thing makes the Danes differ from the Brits, and it’s the extra availability of consumable products on match day.