We're off to Berlin today, for a short holiday we've both been looking forward to enormously. We get up at 5.30 and after quickly finishing packing we head out and jump on the Piccadilly Line towards Heathrow Terminal 5. It's quite nice that we can walk down the road to Turnpike Lane station and not have to change trains or even move before we're inside the terminal we're flying from - but it is a bloody long journey and takes around an hour and a quarter to negotiate the 30-odd stops out to West London.
We pass the time by reading, though, and soon we're in the impressive Terminal 5, breezing through check-in and security. We're nice and early for the flight, so we grab an uninspiring and overpriced baguette from Pret a Manger and take our seats. Since both of us are regularly budget airline types, it's quite a thrill to be flying BA and not have to worry about scrambling for seats - and even getting food and drinks on the plane. What a treat! No matter that the food we end up getting this morning is a ham and tomato roll the size of a fag packet - we're just pleased to be on our way.
We land at Berlin Tegel airport at around 11.30, where a nice man helps us buy a day ticket for the Berlin transport system and we get a short bus into the city centre. We arrive at Alexanderplatz, the touristy/shopping centre of old East Berlin, and, since we have a couple of hours to kill before we can check into our hotel, get stuck right in by sitting down with a beer and a portion of currywurst (the local specialty) each. We take in the area for a wee while before heading towards our hotel, which is further south of the centre. It's getting hot here already - and after checking in and getting rid of our heavy bags we set out to explore the city a little, as well as finding a decent bar to watch the England game in.
We head due north and the first place we come across is Potsdamer Platz. A literal no-man's land during the Cold War, it's spent the last 20 years becoming a collection of impressive skyscrapers and restaurants, as well as an audaciously designed U-Bahn stop. There is also a small preserved section of the Berlin Wall, with markings showing the line the rest of the wall would have followed. This is our first real encounter with Berlin's history - and while this particular section of the wall is overshadowed by a massive iPad advert, it's exactly what I was hoping to find.
Next we head further north and stumble across both the huge Holocaust memorial - a grid of concrete coffins that's truly impressive and utterly claustrophobic to walk through - and the Brandenburg Gate. It's weird to be standing next to something so famous when you hadn't been looking for it, but especially when you're just trying to find a bar with a TV where the beer doesn't cost 5 euros a pint!
We eventually find a small, deserted roof terrace (it is 3pm on a Wednesday after all) and take our seats in front of a sunlit TV to watch the England v Slovenia match and rest our legs a bit. There are only a couple of other people here, but our waitress is English and spends some time suggesting areas of the city to visit to find bars and markets and suchlike.
After the game (which England win 1-0 in a much improved performance, albeit failing to win the group thanks to a late USA winner over Algeria) we jump on the U-Bahn and head further into East Berlin in search of fun. We quickly come across a large beer garden, which instantly looks exactly how I had imagined Berlin - grafitti-covered, crumbling concrete walls, gravel on the ground and long benches full of people eating bratwurst and drinking lager. Tonight it's even more exciting, though, as people are starting to gather for the Germany v Ghana World Cup match with flags and vuvuzelas in tow.
It gets busy quickly, and we move on after a single beer. The sun is starting to go down, but it's still hot as we hit the north bank of the Spree, and the East Side Gallery - the longest and most recently decorated stretch of preserved Wall. Painted up by a series of graffiti artists to celebrate 20 years since the fall of Communism, it's pretty stunning, though walking it's length is a hot and tiring affair.
By the time the sun's gone down, we're in a small pub in amongst some fairly residential streets. I had led us here having picked out a particular U-Bahn station which would take us home later, but it had been a very long walk, and we are both happy to sit and have a few drinks and relax.
The relaxation doesn't last long, however, as the final whistle in the Germany match goes - they have won 1-0 - and people in the flats above the pub start throwing firecrackers off their balconies. It's a huge noise, amplified by the tight square we're sat on, and fearful of getting hit by fireworks on our first night in Berlin we scuttle into the pub to finish our drinks along with the old people and the shaking, terrified dogs.
On the way home the German fans are out in the street in force, beeping horns and waving flags - it honestly seemed like a bit of an over-reaction; you'd think they'd won the bloody tournament.
We eventually get back to the hotel after midnight, slightly drunk but utterly exhausted; with pounding feet and aching limbs. Our 'gentle' first day in the city had turned into a 17-hour walk - and we reluctantly set our alarms for tomorrow's exploring.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Tuesday
It's getting really rather warm in London, to the extent that I'm actually rather glad to be getting out of the country tomorrow with temperatures looking set to rise to the point where work in our office is nigh on physical torture. The day passes nicely, despite the heat, particularly as I help to set up the projector and laptop for tomorrow's England game and get to watch a little of South Africa humiliating an imploding French squad by two goals to one - sending the French home in fourth place and Uruguay and Mexico through.
Another amusing incident comes when the MD gets back from lunch having apparently taken a drink and decides to start moving the office furniture around. It's not a productive day - but it has that nice 'last day of term' feel before we head off on holiday.
In the warm of the evening K and I walk over to Ant's house to pick up a memory card for our new digital camera and to drop some CDs off with Tim. It's nice to have a stroll in the evening, especially as we're looking to knacker ourselves out ahead of an early night, but it is still really, really hot and we get home totally puffed out.
An 'early night' tonight actually involves us staying up past midnight watching old movies and eventually we make our way to bed, excitably eager to pass the five hours before we get up again.
Another amusing incident comes when the MD gets back from lunch having apparently taken a drink and decides to start moving the office furniture around. It's not a productive day - but it has that nice 'last day of term' feel before we head off on holiday.
In the warm of the evening K and I walk over to Ant's house to pick up a memory card for our new digital camera and to drop some CDs off with Tim. It's nice to have a stroll in the evening, especially as we're looking to knacker ourselves out ahead of an early night, but it is still really, really hot and we get home totally puffed out.
An 'early night' tonight actually involves us staying up past midnight watching old movies and eventually we make our way to bed, excitably eager to pass the five hours before we get up again.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Monday
Today I need to pop out of work to go and pick up some Euros for our trip to Berlin on Wednesday. This involves walking halfway home down Wood Green High Street to a First Choice travel agent (the only open bureau de change in the borough, it seems) - the sort of grubby, old-fashioned, pre-internet place where people used to actually come and browse through catalogues to find their perfect holiday.
Do people really still do that? Apparently they must - though instead of searching for a lovely summer cruise I instead find myself standing in a queue behind a woman who is probably about 40 but has the sunbed-ruined skin of a 90-year-old and is trying to haggle a better deal on her unspent holiday Euros. After listening to her spend 10 minutes whining about how exchange rates aren't fair because they change - probably expecting the 18-year-old girl behind the till to put a call in to the treasury - I finally get to the front of the queue. Annoyingly I have to take less than I wanted, because they've only got a few notes left. If the stupid woman in front of me had accepted the fickle nature of international finance I could have had all the Euros I could have ever wanted. Ah well.
I get back to work to catch the end of Portugal annihilating North Korea 7-0 on the BBC live text and later head home to keep an eye on Spain v Honduras (in which the favourites finally grab a 2-0 win which, by all accounts, could well have been as one-sided as Portugal's earlier effort). The second round of group games is now finished and the groups as a whole will be done by Friday - it's all whipping by far too fast for my liking; and the end of the groups marks the sad end of there being at least one game on every day. How will we survive?
Do people really still do that? Apparently they must - though instead of searching for a lovely summer cruise I instead find myself standing in a queue behind a woman who is probably about 40 but has the sunbed-ruined skin of a 90-year-old and is trying to haggle a better deal on her unspent holiday Euros. After listening to her spend 10 minutes whining about how exchange rates aren't fair because they change - probably expecting the 18-year-old girl behind the till to put a call in to the treasury - I finally get to the front of the queue. Annoyingly I have to take less than I wanted, because they've only got a few notes left. If the stupid woman in front of me had accepted the fickle nature of international finance I could have had all the Euros I could have ever wanted. Ah well.
I get back to work to catch the end of Portugal annihilating North Korea 7-0 on the BBC live text and later head home to keep an eye on Spain v Honduras (in which the favourites finally grab a 2-0 win which, by all accounts, could well have been as one-sided as Portugal's earlier effort). The second round of group games is now finished and the groups as a whole will be done by Friday - it's all whipping by far too fast for my liking; and the end of the groups marks the sad end of there being at least one game on every day. How will we survive?
Monday, 21 June 2010
Sunday
Determined to make today at least slightly more productive than yesterday, I hop out of bed at around 10.30 and, after watching some old Lee & Herring videos on YouTube, wander up to Wood Green to visit Wilkinson's. Now that our back garden has weeds in it that are over six feet tall and with stalks as thick as my arm, I thought it might be time to tool up and hack away at some of it before it develops it's own separate, ungodly eco-system or something.
Happily, I find a large pair of fairly devastating-looking shears for the fairly devastatingly low price of £2.97, some gloves for 97p and a big roll of garden rubbish bags for 98p. Good old Wilkos. The weather isn't great so I plan to do a little bit of trimming before the inevitable rain, but it actually brightens up and I spend a good hour and a half hacking away at the ridiculous garden. To give an idea of the scale of the problem, I give up with about a third of it cleared. I do manage to rescue the 'lawn furniture' and a deckchair full of rusty water, however, so there is a certain amount of satisfaction to be had.
After all this manly outdoor work I'm a bit sweaty and bored, so I retire to the living room to watch the Italy v New Zealand match, while Alex comes round for a quick visit. After the match I get on the tube to South London once again in order to meet the boys and finally record the podcast we had meant to get done on Wednesday night. It turns out to be a really fun and unusual one as we manage to get Seb on the line via Skype, all the way from Soccer City in Johannesburg, where he is working for ITV throughout the World Cup. We spend the first 20 minutes of the podcast interviewing Seb about his experiences and generally getting rather jealous - especially when he informs us that he is about to walk down to the stadium to watch Brazil v Ivory Coast, which we can only watch on TV. Hmmph.
Happily, I find a large pair of fairly devastating-looking shears for the fairly devastatingly low price of £2.97, some gloves for 97p and a big roll of garden rubbish bags for 98p. Good old Wilkos. The weather isn't great so I plan to do a little bit of trimming before the inevitable rain, but it actually brightens up and I spend a good hour and a half hacking away at the ridiculous garden. To give an idea of the scale of the problem, I give up with about a third of it cleared. I do manage to rescue the 'lawn furniture' and a deckchair full of rusty water, however, so there is a certain amount of satisfaction to be had.
After all this manly outdoor work I'm a bit sweaty and bored, so I retire to the living room to watch the Italy v New Zealand match, while Alex comes round for a quick visit. After the match I get on the tube to South London once again in order to meet the boys and finally record the podcast we had meant to get done on Wednesday night. It turns out to be a really fun and unusual one as we manage to get Seb on the line via Skype, all the way from Soccer City in Johannesburg, where he is working for ITV throughout the World Cup. We spend the first 20 minutes of the podcast interviewing Seb about his experiences and generally getting rather jealous - especially when he informs us that he is about to walk down to the stadium to watch Brazil v Ivory Coast, which we can only watch on TV. Hmmph.
Saturday
I wake up late and feeling like shite. This is to be expected, though what is nice is that since K is off to Cardiff for the weekend she is up early to make me scrambled eggs on toast and give me a nice kiss goodbye. Lovely. When she leaves, I have barely the energy to contemplate anything other than collapsing on the sofa and gazing blankly at Sky Sports News.
Later I grab the external hard drive and plug it into the Xbox so I can, for no good reason other than I know that it's long, slow and quiet (and good), stick There Will Be Blood on. I get around an hour in before feeling distracted and actually dragging myself out of the front door towards Tesco to get the makings of a bit of lunch. The next part of the day, meaning the hours between 12.30 and 9.30, are spent alternately/concurrently watching Holland v Japan, Ghana v Australia and Denmark v Cameroon and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. I learn two things from this endeavour: one, that watching three football games in a day can cause them to blur into one and render your field of vision mostly green; and two, that Angry Birds is literally impossible to stop playing. Just when you think it's bored you or that it's too difficult, you complete the level and have to carry on. It's pure, touchscreen evil.
When the football is all finally over and my iPhone battery has run out for the second time, I finish a couple of cans of beer and watch an episode of The Wire to soothe me to sleep.
Later I grab the external hard drive and plug it into the Xbox so I can, for no good reason other than I know that it's long, slow and quiet (and good), stick There Will Be Blood on. I get around an hour in before feeling distracted and actually dragging myself out of the front door towards Tesco to get the makings of a bit of lunch. The next part of the day, meaning the hours between 12.30 and 9.30, are spent alternately/concurrently watching Holland v Japan, Ghana v Australia and Denmark v Cameroon and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. I learn two things from this endeavour: one, that watching three football games in a day can cause them to blur into one and render your field of vision mostly green; and two, that Angry Birds is literally impossible to stop playing. Just when you think it's bored you or that it's too difficult, you complete the level and have to carry on. It's pure, touchscreen evil.
When the football is all finally over and my iPhone battery has run out for the second time, I finish a couple of cans of beer and watch an episode of The Wire to soothe me to sleep.
Friday
Tonight is England v Algeria - time for the team to make good after a dodgy-but-promising opener and all set up perfectly for a 7.30 kick off on a Friday night. Christ, you wouldn't want to be working behind a bar tonight - or at least I wouldn't.
The plan, as was arranged on Wednesday night, is to head to Clapham Common to watch the game in the Alexandra with some of the podcast boys. By the time I get home from work, I'm not particularly enthused by the idea any more, mainly because it involves travelling to South London for the third night in a row but also because I'm always slightly apprehensive about watching England in pubs anyway, particularly during the World Cup. I'm far from being some sort of football snob, I think, but during a major tournament there's bound to be an unhealthy mixture of ignorant meathead football fans and completely clueless non-football fans who are along for the ride. There's nothing wrong with this second group, really - it's the extra interest that gives the World Cup its buzz and makes it a truly 'world' event - as long as they keep their mouths shut in busy pubs. That's all I ask; just don't make banal comments and attempt to analyse something when you have no frame of reference. Or if you do, do it quietly, to a friend - rather than shrieking your giddy ignorance across a crowded room. OK?
Anyway, I decide to head to Clapham after all, as Joe has informed me that the place isn't too busy. This is probably true when we speak, but after a 45 minute journey south I find myself having to talk my way past the bouncer who has stopped letting people into the pub, such is its fullness. The atmosphere is OK, though - everyone is optimistic and we even manage to get a small round of imaginary vuvuzelas going briefly at the back of the room.
That's probably the last positive bit of the evening, though. England are - crushingly - totally abject tonight. No one plays well; and Rooney plays worse than I think I've ever seen him play before. Expectation seems to be hanging over the squad and not one man looks happy or comfortable with the job he's been asked to do. As a result, the game ends 0-0 without ever looking like being any other scoreline. Algeria don't want to score; which should spur a team of £30m players like England on to scoring - but somehow, inexplicably, it doesn't. At half time some of us are still hopeful, many of us furious. By full time, though, we're all angry. The atmosphere in the pub is actually quite ugly; the frustration and confusion really rather tangible.
We pour out of the doors and dejectedly grab a couple of cans and head to Tom's house to debrief. There's not much appetite for football chat, but we have a fairly nice time and get well on our way to being totally hammered before heading out again towards a vague bar with vague purpose. Before I sense that the last tube might have left, I say my goodbyes and shamble up the road.
The next thing I am conscious of is consciousness itself - returning suddenly on an outdoor tube platform. The sign above me says 'High Barnet', and I know instantly what's happened. Instead of changing trains at Kings Cross St. Pancras, my comatose, idiotic body continued on to the very northern outpost of the Northern Line. Daft prick that it is.
I ask bystanders for advice and they all suggest heading up the road towards a bus stop. It's 1.30am and I have little chance of finding a useful nightbus. At the stop there is a man lying on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of vomit. Before I'm able to process the information, an ambulance turns up and the paramedics try to wake him up. I have to get out of this weird, cold place, I reason - and head for the taxi office. A stupid night ends expensively - and, eventually, at home.
The plan, as was arranged on Wednesday night, is to head to Clapham Common to watch the game in the Alexandra with some of the podcast boys. By the time I get home from work, I'm not particularly enthused by the idea any more, mainly because it involves travelling to South London for the third night in a row but also because I'm always slightly apprehensive about watching England in pubs anyway, particularly during the World Cup. I'm far from being some sort of football snob, I think, but during a major tournament there's bound to be an unhealthy mixture of ignorant meathead football fans and completely clueless non-football fans who are along for the ride. There's nothing wrong with this second group, really - it's the extra interest that gives the World Cup its buzz and makes it a truly 'world' event - as long as they keep their mouths shut in busy pubs. That's all I ask; just don't make banal comments and attempt to analyse something when you have no frame of reference. Or if you do, do it quietly, to a friend - rather than shrieking your giddy ignorance across a crowded room. OK?
Anyway, I decide to head to Clapham after all, as Joe has informed me that the place isn't too busy. This is probably true when we speak, but after a 45 minute journey south I find myself having to talk my way past the bouncer who has stopped letting people into the pub, such is its fullness. The atmosphere is OK, though - everyone is optimistic and we even manage to get a small round of imaginary vuvuzelas going briefly at the back of the room.
That's probably the last positive bit of the evening, though. England are - crushingly - totally abject tonight. No one plays well; and Rooney plays worse than I think I've ever seen him play before. Expectation seems to be hanging over the squad and not one man looks happy or comfortable with the job he's been asked to do. As a result, the game ends 0-0 without ever looking like being any other scoreline. Algeria don't want to score; which should spur a team of £30m players like England on to scoring - but somehow, inexplicably, it doesn't. At half time some of us are still hopeful, many of us furious. By full time, though, we're all angry. The atmosphere in the pub is actually quite ugly; the frustration and confusion really rather tangible.
We pour out of the doors and dejectedly grab a couple of cans and head to Tom's house to debrief. There's not much appetite for football chat, but we have a fairly nice time and get well on our way to being totally hammered before heading out again towards a vague bar with vague purpose. Before I sense that the last tube might have left, I say my goodbyes and shamble up the road.
The next thing I am conscious of is consciousness itself - returning suddenly on an outdoor tube platform. The sign above me says 'High Barnet', and I know instantly what's happened. Instead of changing trains at Kings Cross St. Pancras, my comatose, idiotic body continued on to the very northern outpost of the Northern Line. Daft prick that it is.
I ask bystanders for advice and they all suggest heading up the road towards a bus stop. It's 1.30am and I have little chance of finding a useful nightbus. At the stop there is a man lying on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of vomit. Before I'm able to process the information, an ambulance turns up and the paramedics try to wake him up. I have to get out of this weird, cold place, I reason - and head for the taxi office. A stupid night ends expensively - and, eventually, at home.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
Thursday
Today is our annual meeting with the company who designed and maintain our company's website, so Claire and I are heading to Manchester for the day to see them. I head out of the door to go to Euston, and at that exact moment I get a text from Claire telling me that she thought her wallet had been nicked, and that I should just go to the office. No more than 30 seconds later I get a second text telling me that she's found it. Panic over - and what is already a stuttering journey north no more than foot from my front door can continue.
The wallet-finding has delayed Claire, so I wait for her at Euston and we end up running for the train with a minute to spare. It's not too busy on board and the 2-hour trip to Manchester Piccadilly goes quickly as we collaborate to defeat my iPhone at Scrabble and discuss the issues we need to go over with the web people.
On arrival at Piccadilly we're told by phone that the best way to get to their office in Deansgate is to get the tram - which is rather exciting as, despite having been to Manchester many times in the last few years, I haven't been on the tram since I was much younger. We probably get a couple of looks as we show ourselves to be the hapless Londoners adrift from the familiarity of the tube - staring blankly at the ticket machine and the list of meaningless stops. Luckily my vague local knowledge gets us through and soon we're on our way towards G-Mex and the meeting.
The meeting itself goes well, although the lunch they regularly provide isn't nearly as good as it used to be (I get over this, though, and manage to put away several little sandwiches in the 3 hours we're there). We stay a little longer than we should and miss our stop back on the tram - meaning that once again we have to run to get the train and I take my seat a slightly harrassed, sweaty mess. Luckily Claire knows the remedy - and gets the beers in. She's a pretty great boss at times like this!
We get back to Euston at around 6, and, despite the slightly surreal feeling of having made a 400-mile round trip to stay in Manchester for 3 hours, I get on the tube and head to Wandsworth to meet Kathryn from work. She's not had the best day so we take a seat at a pub on the river bank and have a couple of pints, before getting a call from Tim to tell us that he and his girlfriend are in The Cock on Great Portland Street.
Another short train ride and tube ride later and we're with them, supping the much cheaper Sam Smith's pints and gradually getting rather drunk. Neither of us have had anything to eat yet so we leave at a decent hour - stopping to pick up an unwise bottle of red wine on the way - and grill up some lovely quarter pounder burgers for a boozy dinner.
The wallet-finding has delayed Claire, so I wait for her at Euston and we end up running for the train with a minute to spare. It's not too busy on board and the 2-hour trip to Manchester Piccadilly goes quickly as we collaborate to defeat my iPhone at Scrabble and discuss the issues we need to go over with the web people.
On arrival at Piccadilly we're told by phone that the best way to get to their office in Deansgate is to get the tram - which is rather exciting as, despite having been to Manchester many times in the last few years, I haven't been on the tram since I was much younger. We probably get a couple of looks as we show ourselves to be the hapless Londoners adrift from the familiarity of the tube - staring blankly at the ticket machine and the list of meaningless stops. Luckily my vague local knowledge gets us through and soon we're on our way towards G-Mex and the meeting.
The meeting itself goes well, although the lunch they regularly provide isn't nearly as good as it used to be (I get over this, though, and manage to put away several little sandwiches in the 3 hours we're there). We stay a little longer than we should and miss our stop back on the tram - meaning that once again we have to run to get the train and I take my seat a slightly harrassed, sweaty mess. Luckily Claire knows the remedy - and gets the beers in. She's a pretty great boss at times like this!
We get back to Euston at around 6, and, despite the slightly surreal feeling of having made a 400-mile round trip to stay in Manchester for 3 hours, I get on the tube and head to Wandsworth to meet Kathryn from work. She's not had the best day so we take a seat at a pub on the river bank and have a couple of pints, before getting a call from Tim to tell us that he and his girlfriend are in The Cock on Great Portland Street.
Another short train ride and tube ride later and we're with them, supping the much cheaper Sam Smith's pints and gradually getting rather drunk. Neither of us have had anything to eat yet so we leave at a decent hour - stopping to pick up an unwise bottle of red wine on the way - and grill up some lovely quarter pounder burgers for a boozy dinner.
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