Comedowns are an inconvenient reality. Whether they are alcohol or drug-induced, or merely the realisation of a natural high’s termination, the after-effects of a good time tend to taint enjoyable experiences.
William Wordsworth, a poet preoccupied with notions of the sublime and solitude, pleasure and pain, formed a model of what we might now call ‘post-session depression’ in his poem, ‘Resolution and Independence’. Although written in 1802, the lyric poem is relevant to anybody who has ever experienced a low that follows a high:
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joys in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
This passage from the third stanza encapsulates Wordsworth’s exploration of the immediacy between joy and dejection; that to experience the pinnacle of pleasure is to automatically become despondent.
Human Traffic may not necessarily be the most obvious contemporary cultural reference in relation to poetry of the Romantic period, but the film does bear some ideological resemblance to Wordsworth’s verse.
The film follows Jip (played by John Simm) and his friends as they indulge in the drug and club culture of the 90s and, when Simm’s character discusses ecstasy, his sentiments are reminiscent of Wordsworth’s: “We risk sanity for moments of temporary enlightenment.”
Jip then turns to the fragility and temporality of joy detailed by Wordsworth, “The last thought killed by anticipation of the next.” Although Wordsworth is sober and Pip under the amphetamine's influence, the two have in common a delight in the present but also an awareness that this dream-like state will at any moment switch to despair.
It is not only an eternal search for enlightenment which the Romantics poets and clubbers of Human Traffic have in common. Where natural delirium fails to ignite, both have sought alternative highs, primarily of the chemical variety.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, composer of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, famously pushed the self-destruct button when searching for inspiration later in his life; his alternative high, opium, eventually contributed to his death. Compared to Coleridge, Pete Doherty looks less a tortured soul, more a mischievous schoolboy sneakily sipping on his parents’ sherry.
‘Resolution and Independence’, however, is not concerned with the pursuit of an intoxicating escape from reality but, rather, a natural clarification of matters of joy and dejection.
One doesn’t necessarily need to be recovering from a drug’s side-effects to endure a comedown. For example, having experienced the rapture of a concert or the rush of a last-minute winner at a football match, once the immediate joy has passed, it seems that the only way for our spirits is down.
The culmination of expectations and ecstasy of the moment mean that, even in perfect sobriety, we have entered the highest point of pleasure and, as a result, we immediately enter a state of decline.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Monday, 23 March 2009
Tomatoes, chimneys and seagulls: An introduction to sporting philosophy
Post-match interviews and press conferences are often seen as the pinnacle of sporting figures’ capacity for dullness. Brian O’Driscoll, the Irish rugby union captain, however, bucked this trend in peculiar fashion during this year's Six Nations championship.
In a press conference held before Ireland’s match against England, O’Driscoll was asked about playing alongside Martin Johnson for the British and Irish Lions, and facing him as opposition. The centre’s reply was wilfully cryptic: “Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad.” It is unconfirmed whether this turn of phrase was a part of O’Driscoll’s team talk.
Meanwhile, flying the flag for footballing idiosyncrasies is Juventus manager Claudio Ranieri, who when faced with the sack at Chelsea in 2004, remarked, “Before you kill me, you call me the "dead man walking." I must buy you an espresso. But only a little one - I am Scottish!”
This particular trail of managerial misquoting is one blazed by many before Ranieri; none more so than Kevin Keegan, who said of decision-making processes, “It is understandable that people are keeping one eye on the pot and another up the chimney.” Read this sentence repeatedly for a day, and the word “understandable” still seems somewhat misplaced.
O’Driscoll’s enigmatic assessment is reminiscent of Eric Cantona’s famous foray into philosophy. Addressing the press in the wake of his kung-fu kick on a Crystal Palace, the former French international said that, "when the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea." As of yet, the forward-turned-actor’s profundity is one which has yet to have been matched by anybody at Old Trafford.
The aforementioned examples should illustrate how sport and philosophy are not as incongruous a pairing as one might first assume. To those still unconvinced, the great Algerian philosopher Albert Camus offers a definitive final thought: “All I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football.”
As written for Leeds Student
In a press conference held before Ireland’s match against England, O’Driscoll was asked about playing alongside Martin Johnson for the British and Irish Lions, and facing him as opposition. The centre’s reply was wilfully cryptic: “Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad.” It is unconfirmed whether this turn of phrase was a part of O’Driscoll’s team talk.
Meanwhile, flying the flag for footballing idiosyncrasies is Juventus manager Claudio Ranieri, who when faced with the sack at Chelsea in 2004, remarked, “Before you kill me, you call me the "dead man walking." I must buy you an espresso. But only a little one - I am Scottish!”
This particular trail of managerial misquoting is one blazed by many before Ranieri; none more so than Kevin Keegan, who said of decision-making processes, “It is understandable that people are keeping one eye on the pot and another up the chimney.” Read this sentence repeatedly for a day, and the word “understandable” still seems somewhat misplaced.
O’Driscoll’s enigmatic assessment is reminiscent of Eric Cantona’s famous foray into philosophy. Addressing the press in the wake of his kung-fu kick on a Crystal Palace, the former French international said that, "when the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea." As of yet, the forward-turned-actor’s profundity is one which has yet to have been matched by anybody at Old Trafford.
The aforementioned examples should illustrate how sport and philosophy are not as incongruous a pairing as one might first assume. To those still unconvinced, the great Algerian philosopher Albert Camus offers a definitive final thought: “All I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football.”
As written for Leeds Student
Thursday, 19 February 2009
The Secret of Being a Good Football Team
Ask a football pundit why Arsenal are such a joy to watch and the reply will probably include a platitude about the Gunners "playing football".
It may seem nonsensical to the casual observer but, to an armchair fan hardened by seasons of rolling news channels and highlights programmes, the phrase is ubiquitous.
Studio analysts offer their wisdom with the sort of knowing confidence that suggests they are indulging us in information so precious and rare that it requires its own conservational charity.
Pundits appear to see themselves as tactical philanthropists, seemingly saying: “To all of you languishing in relegation battles, take note – it is by ‘playing football’ that you become successful.”
A team's decision to do so is often met with pleasant surprise from analysts. It is with some relief that a perma-tanned former pro will say, "Well, Gary, it's great to see a team come out and play football."
Are we missing something? It could be that the average viewer is unaware of a preceding fixture, where Bolton have visited Old Trafford with helmets and pads to counter the threat of Cristiano Ronaldo with an American football blitz defence.
Considering that their work entails nothing but watching the sport, it can seem confusing that pundits cherish a side’s decision to “play football” with the apparent glee of an art critic who has stumbled upon Wayne Rooney reciting a soliloquy from Hamlet.
Teams with the audacity to "play football" should be warned, though. West Brom have suffered for such a philosophy, as their 4-0 and 5-0 losses to Man United apparently came from being too open and "playing too much football". Tony Mowbray seems to have much to learn about the Premier League if he thinks that playing football will yield success in a football match.
Meanwhile, the highest compliment Australia cricket captain Ricky Ponting can pay is that his opponents have, "played some really good Test cricket." As he rattles through his post-match pleasantries, one can imagine his players breathing a sigh of relief in the changing rooms, "Jeez, those Poms played some great cricket today – much tougher than when they had their table tennis bats."
It would appear that the secret is out. While footballers grasp that “playing football” is the foundation for success, even cricket teams have embraced the idea of “playing cricket”. And if the eventual 6 Nations champions will point to “playing rugby” as the key to their triumph, then they will have the besuited and tanned of Soccer Saturday and Match of the Day to thank.
As written for Leeds Student, February 20, 2009
It may seem nonsensical to the casual observer but, to an armchair fan hardened by seasons of rolling news channels and highlights programmes, the phrase is ubiquitous.
Studio analysts offer their wisdom with the sort of knowing confidence that suggests they are indulging us in information so precious and rare that it requires its own conservational charity.
Pundits appear to see themselves as tactical philanthropists, seemingly saying: “To all of you languishing in relegation battles, take note – it is by ‘playing football’ that you become successful.”
A team's decision to do so is often met with pleasant surprise from analysts. It is with some relief that a perma-tanned former pro will say, "Well, Gary, it's great to see a team come out and play football."
Are we missing something? It could be that the average viewer is unaware of a preceding fixture, where Bolton have visited Old Trafford with helmets and pads to counter the threat of Cristiano Ronaldo with an American football blitz defence.
Considering that their work entails nothing but watching the sport, it can seem confusing that pundits cherish a side’s decision to “play football” with the apparent glee of an art critic who has stumbled upon Wayne Rooney reciting a soliloquy from Hamlet.
Teams with the audacity to "play football" should be warned, though. West Brom have suffered for such a philosophy, as their 4-0 and 5-0 losses to Man United apparently came from being too open and "playing too much football". Tony Mowbray seems to have much to learn about the Premier League if he thinks that playing football will yield success in a football match.
Meanwhile, the highest compliment Australia cricket captain Ricky Ponting can pay is that his opponents have, "played some really good Test cricket." As he rattles through his post-match pleasantries, one can imagine his players breathing a sigh of relief in the changing rooms, "Jeez, those Poms played some great cricket today – much tougher than when they had their table tennis bats."
It would appear that the secret is out. While footballers grasp that “playing football” is the foundation for success, even cricket teams have embraced the idea of “playing cricket”. And if the eventual 6 Nations champions will point to “playing rugby” as the key to their triumph, then they will have the besuited and tanned of Soccer Saturday and Match of the Day to thank.
As written for Leeds Student, February 20, 2009
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Hyperbole rhymes with Super Bowl, right?
It was with some disappointment that, during an English lesson some years ago, I discovered that the word hyperbole actually does not rhyme with Super Bowl. The two are made for one another: one is a phrase concerned with exaggeration and overblown pomp, while the other is pronounced ‘hy-per-bol-ee.’
Sunday’s Super Bowl XLIII provided a spectacle in more ways than one. An absorbing encounter that saw the Pittsburgh Steelers crowned champions for an unprecedented sixth time was just one aspect of an event globally unique for its unapologetically monumental sense of ceremony.
American football truly overshadows its European counterparts away from the field. Whereas I spent my last half-time break at Ninian Park with a cup of hot Bovril, the crowd at Tampa were treated to a Bruce Springsteen concert. With fireworks.
Meanwhile, on the pitch, seeing defence players (I suppress the urge to use ‘defenders’) whoop and holler their role in an incomplete attack was particularly novel. The image of Gary Neville throwing high-fives and bumping chests with fellow defenders after thwarting an opposition player’s effort on goal is one difficult to conjure.
It may well be America’s showpiece event but even a century of FA Cup finals would fall dismally short of the pomp generated by just one Super Bowl. Announcers at the Raymond James Stadium introduced songs from warbling R’n’B acts as tributes to “our beautiful country”, while army generals were paraded before the crowd. A shoddy rendition of Jerusalem this was not.
The BBC did their best to douse the event’s roaring sense of occasion with their choice of presenter, Jake Humphrey. Familiar to many as “that lanky one from CBBC who presented the Olympics”, Humphrey bolstered his reputation as the corporation’s purveyor of naff by calling touchdowns “tries” and referring to players by their first names.
Unfortunately for viewers in the UK, Humphrey’s presenting will be the only feature of this particular evening’s entertainment on show on our screens in the near future.
As written for Leeds Student 6.2.2009
Sunday’s Super Bowl XLIII provided a spectacle in more ways than one. An absorbing encounter that saw the Pittsburgh Steelers crowned champions for an unprecedented sixth time was just one aspect of an event globally unique for its unapologetically monumental sense of ceremony.
American football truly overshadows its European counterparts away from the field. Whereas I spent my last half-time break at Ninian Park with a cup of hot Bovril, the crowd at Tampa were treated to a Bruce Springsteen concert. With fireworks.
Meanwhile, on the pitch, seeing defence players (I suppress the urge to use ‘defenders’) whoop and holler their role in an incomplete attack was particularly novel. The image of Gary Neville throwing high-fives and bumping chests with fellow defenders after thwarting an opposition player’s effort on goal is one difficult to conjure.
It may well be America’s showpiece event but even a century of FA Cup finals would fall dismally short of the pomp generated by just one Super Bowl. Announcers at the Raymond James Stadium introduced songs from warbling R’n’B acts as tributes to “our beautiful country”, while army generals were paraded before the crowd. A shoddy rendition of Jerusalem this was not.
The BBC did their best to douse the event’s roaring sense of occasion with their choice of presenter, Jake Humphrey. Familiar to many as “that lanky one from CBBC who presented the Olympics”, Humphrey bolstered his reputation as the corporation’s purveyor of naff by calling touchdowns “tries” and referring to players by their first names.
Unfortunately for viewers in the UK, Humphrey’s presenting will be the only feature of this particular evening’s entertainment on show on our screens in the near future.
As written for Leeds Student 6.2.2009
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Sky's the limit for Murray hype
When Roger Federer questioned some bookmakers’ decision to make Andy Murray favourite for the Australian Open, reaction from certain sections of the media suggested that the Swiss player had just called for Bruce Forsyth to be put down.
The 13-time grand slam champion’s honest but fair words, however, merely served as a timely reality check for the British press. Despite only reaching one ‘slam’ final, Murray had been touted as a favourite for this month’s tournament but his fourth-round defeat to Fernando Verdasco showed that there is still work to do.
Murray, after all, has never won a grand slam and remains behind Rafael Nadal, Federer and Novak Djokovic in the rankings. Federer acknowledged the improvement in Murray’s game but warned, “Winning a grand slam is a different animal."
Sky Sports News’ Vicky Gomersall wandered aloud if it was a “case of sour grapes” from Federer but, in truth, it was merely an honest appraisal of a good tennis player, who has yet to reach the same level of consistent excellence as his aforementioned peers.
Gomersall’s thoughts highlighted the British media’s inability to accept a truth that may inconveniently differ from their biased views, and Murray’s is not a solitary case.
Backed by vociferous support from fans and press, Ricky Hatton could have been forgiven for thinking that his defeat to Floyd Mayweather Jr was a result of dodgy refereeing. However questionable some of Joe Cortez’s decisions may have been, though, Hatton was simply outclassed.
Likewise, England’s recent exits at football’s major championships have been blamed on Urs Meier (the referee who tabloids called a “Swiss Banker” – he is in fact a grocer) and Cristiano Ronaldo. In both cases, their own players’ underachievement has gone unnoticed.
Murray’s response was, in stark contrast, both candid and measured. “Sometimes you have to suck it up and admit he was too good.”
He may not be the most charming or eloquent man ever to grace a tennis court but the Scot has constantly reiterated that goals he sets himself are realistic. Despite the unrelenting expectation, Murray has maintained a patient philosophy; that his time, his chance to win a grand slam, will come.
As written for Leeds Student, 30/01/09
The 13-time grand slam champion’s honest but fair words, however, merely served as a timely reality check for the British press. Despite only reaching one ‘slam’ final, Murray had been touted as a favourite for this month’s tournament but his fourth-round defeat to Fernando Verdasco showed that there is still work to do.
Murray, after all, has never won a grand slam and remains behind Rafael Nadal, Federer and Novak Djokovic in the rankings. Federer acknowledged the improvement in Murray’s game but warned, “Winning a grand slam is a different animal."
Sky Sports News’ Vicky Gomersall wandered aloud if it was a “case of sour grapes” from Federer but, in truth, it was merely an honest appraisal of a good tennis player, who has yet to reach the same level of consistent excellence as his aforementioned peers.
Gomersall’s thoughts highlighted the British media’s inability to accept a truth that may inconveniently differ from their biased views, and Murray’s is not a solitary case.
Backed by vociferous support from fans and press, Ricky Hatton could have been forgiven for thinking that his defeat to Floyd Mayweather Jr was a result of dodgy refereeing. However questionable some of Joe Cortez’s decisions may have been, though, Hatton was simply outclassed.
Likewise, England’s recent exits at football’s major championships have been blamed on Urs Meier (the referee who tabloids called a “Swiss Banker” – he is in fact a grocer) and Cristiano Ronaldo. In both cases, their own players’ underachievement has gone unnoticed.
Murray’s response was, in stark contrast, both candid and measured. “Sometimes you have to suck it up and admit he was too good.”
He may not be the most charming or eloquent man ever to grace a tennis court but the Scot has constantly reiterated that goals he sets himself are realistic. Despite the unrelenting expectation, Murray has maintained a patient philosophy; that his time, his chance to win a grand slam, will come.
As written for Leeds Student, 30/01/09
Monday, 19 January 2009
Snooker? With Jazz? Nice.
In their classic ‘Snooker Loopy’, Chas and Dave promised to show us what they “could do with a load of balls and a snooker cue.” Their legacy continued during the final session of the recent Masters’ final, with Ray Stubbs heralding one frame as a showpiece of “snooker balls of steel.”
With such an apparent fixation with balls, snooker would appear to most onlookers to be in rude health. Not according to its finest player, Ronnie O’Sullivan, though. After beating Joe Perry in the first round, O’Sullivan bemoaned the “dying” sport, and mentioned that an X Factor-inspired Simon Cowell overhaul would be provide the necessary resuscitative lift.
The world number one thinks that a change similar to that seen in Britain’s other favourite pub sport, darts, would revitalise the game. "It needs someone with entrepreneurial skills like Simon Cowell who is in the modern world and more dynamic."
Another of snooker’s greats, Steve Davis, agrees that the sport needs a change, but appears to be fuelling the discussion with an interesting new twist, "For the last 25 years our association and players have tried to run their own game a bit Motown style.”
Motown – now there’s an idea for snooker’s hierarchy. It is not a Saturday evening exhibition of third-rate karaoke singers that can save the sport – it is jazz. The game’s bluesy future already seems a vivid prospect; the nostalgic witticisms of commentators Dennis Taylor and John Virgo would turn to calls of “bitchin’ long pot from Graeme Dott” or “Alan McManus - take it to the bridge, baby” , while Hazel Irvine’s chirpy presentation would make way for the Fast Show Jazz Club’s own Louis Balfour. Nice.
In the playing area itself, the compere could be replaced with a piano-accompanied, gravel-voiced jazz veteran, who would introduce players like members of his ensemble; “Playing tactically tonight, we have Mark ‘Smokey’ Selby, and on break-building, the Rocket himself, Mr Ronnie O’Sullivan.”
If O’Sullivan is after a more mainstream-friendly dash of pop culture, then we have the ideal fusion of faux sixties’ soul and contemporary chart music - Duffy. Perhaps she could sing entrance songs for players, as the piano plays standards in the background. Steve Davis’ cousin Miles could even provide posthumous trumpets.
It is a picture of glamour that far exceeds ‘The Rocket’s vision of an ITV screening of ‘Shaun Murphy Versus Stephen Lee On Ice’ – though such a spectacle would indeed provide an entertaining support act.
With such an apparent fixation with balls, snooker would appear to most onlookers to be in rude health. Not according to its finest player, Ronnie O’Sullivan, though. After beating Joe Perry in the first round, O’Sullivan bemoaned the “dying” sport, and mentioned that an X Factor-inspired Simon Cowell overhaul would be provide the necessary resuscitative lift.
The world number one thinks that a change similar to that seen in Britain’s other favourite pub sport, darts, would revitalise the game. "It needs someone with entrepreneurial skills like Simon Cowell who is in the modern world and more dynamic."
Another of snooker’s greats, Steve Davis, agrees that the sport needs a change, but appears to be fuelling the discussion with an interesting new twist, "For the last 25 years our association and players have tried to run their own game a bit Motown style.”
Motown – now there’s an idea for snooker’s hierarchy. It is not a Saturday evening exhibition of third-rate karaoke singers that can save the sport – it is jazz. The game’s bluesy future already seems a vivid prospect; the nostalgic witticisms of commentators Dennis Taylor and John Virgo would turn to calls of “bitchin’ long pot from Graeme Dott” or “Alan McManus - take it to the bridge, baby” , while Hazel Irvine’s chirpy presentation would make way for the Fast Show Jazz Club’s own Louis Balfour. Nice.
In the playing area itself, the compere could be replaced with a piano-accompanied, gravel-voiced jazz veteran, who would introduce players like members of his ensemble; “Playing tactically tonight, we have Mark ‘Smokey’ Selby, and on break-building, the Rocket himself, Mr Ronnie O’Sullivan.”
If O’Sullivan is after a more mainstream-friendly dash of pop culture, then we have the ideal fusion of faux sixties’ soul and contemporary chart music - Duffy. Perhaps she could sing entrance songs for players, as the piano plays standards in the background. Steve Davis’ cousin Miles could even provide posthumous trumpets.
It is a picture of glamour that far exceeds ‘The Rocket’s vision of an ITV screening of ‘Shaun Murphy Versus Stephen Lee On Ice’ – though such a spectacle would indeed provide an entertaining support act.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Sightseeing in... Newport?
“It’s character-building,” “It’ll look good on the CV,” “You’ll be glad you’ve done it when you’ll be basking in the summer rain...” “What do you mean? Washing a rotting cauldron of budget madras isn’t your idea of fun?”
I’ve heard at least two of these platitudes offered to me as positive spin on the monotony of a summer job. Aside from free leftovers and developing a vice-tight grasp of small talk, life as a temporary catering worker is generally as exciting as it sounds.
Recent commitments have seen me jet-set my way from one soulless business park to another, soaking up the glamour of locations such as Newport and Bridgend in the process. In the former, I came across a ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ double-decker bus which, to those of you unfamiliar with the city’s charms, is like spotting a hog roast van weaving its way through the streets of Jerusalem. The incongruity of this particular mode of transport may explain why the amount of tourists on said bus came to a grand total of one.
Newport’s isolated business parks were a sight dystopian enough to make even Winston Smith choke on his Victory Gin. The word ‘park’ could scarcely have been so misplaced. If I was the one tourist ever to embark on a ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ trip, I would be seriously miffed if, having gone to see one of the area’s perfectly nice-sounding ‘parks,’ I’d be presented only with the industrial eye sore of the Quinn Radiators factory.
Misled by the jolly term, I’d feel cheated by those in charge of naming these parks. However, some have done their jobs properly. One estate is called the Imperial Park, which thanks to its first word, at least offers a crumb of reality with its Death Star connotations.
Alas, my sightseeing opportunities were limited to the kitchens and canteens of these places. Inside the Death Star, I was required to fry what seemed like enough eggs to feed an entire army of Imperial storm troopers, though my true tests came elsewhere. On one occasion, I had to confront my culinary kryptonite – mushrooms. And to make my duel an even more tortuous experience, the head chef had chosen the soundtrack. It was my task to wash away a repulsive cream of mushroom soup, collapsing pathetically into the sink to the sound of the painfully repetitive squealing of an inane pop ballad, taken to new, dizzyingly bad heights as it was electronically butchered by Scooter.
If the sensation of this music was meant to offer respite, it only managed to do so in the form of a lasting, enduring ear massage... with a kebab skewer.
Furthermore, my accumulated button presses of the tills could have supplied any flavour-of-the-month, new-rave-thrash-folk-disco-pop act worth their place in NME with a career’s worth of bleating electronic samples. Jim Morrison’s ‘Soul Kitchen’, this was not.
Outside, the desolation was compounded by the apocalyptic weather, with the sweeping rain and raging gusts of wind seemingly confirming that there are some things even more depressing about the world than the existence of Mariah Carey. I was cheered however, when looking back, I saw that jewel in the crown of South East Wales’ tourism industry, the ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ double-decker scuttling its one brave passenger along to another world, another business park.
I’ve heard at least two of these platitudes offered to me as positive spin on the monotony of a summer job. Aside from free leftovers and developing a vice-tight grasp of small talk, life as a temporary catering worker is generally as exciting as it sounds.
Recent commitments have seen me jet-set my way from one soulless business park to another, soaking up the glamour of locations such as Newport and Bridgend in the process. In the former, I came across a ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ double-decker bus which, to those of you unfamiliar with the city’s charms, is like spotting a hog roast van weaving its way through the streets of Jerusalem. The incongruity of this particular mode of transport may explain why the amount of tourists on said bus came to a grand total of one.
Newport’s isolated business parks were a sight dystopian enough to make even Winston Smith choke on his Victory Gin. The word ‘park’ could scarcely have been so misplaced. If I was the one tourist ever to embark on a ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ trip, I would be seriously miffed if, having gone to see one of the area’s perfectly nice-sounding ‘parks,’ I’d be presented only with the industrial eye sore of the Quinn Radiators factory.
Misled by the jolly term, I’d feel cheated by those in charge of naming these parks. However, some have done their jobs properly. One estate is called the Imperial Park, which thanks to its first word, at least offers a crumb of reality with its Death Star connotations.
Alas, my sightseeing opportunities were limited to the kitchens and canteens of these places. Inside the Death Star, I was required to fry what seemed like enough eggs to feed an entire army of Imperial storm troopers, though my true tests came elsewhere. On one occasion, I had to confront my culinary kryptonite – mushrooms. And to make my duel an even more tortuous experience, the head chef had chosen the soundtrack. It was my task to wash away a repulsive cream of mushroom soup, collapsing pathetically into the sink to the sound of the painfully repetitive squealing of an inane pop ballad, taken to new, dizzyingly bad heights as it was electronically butchered by Scooter.
If the sensation of this music was meant to offer respite, it only managed to do so in the form of a lasting, enduring ear massage... with a kebab skewer.
Furthermore, my accumulated button presses of the tills could have supplied any flavour-of-the-month, new-rave-thrash-folk-disco-pop act worth their place in NME with a career’s worth of bleating electronic samples. Jim Morrison’s ‘Soul Kitchen’, this was not.
Outside, the desolation was compounded by the apocalyptic weather, with the sweeping rain and raging gusts of wind seemingly confirming that there are some things even more depressing about the world than the existence of Mariah Carey. I was cheered however, when looking back, I saw that jewel in the crown of South East Wales’ tourism industry, the ‘Sightseeing in Newport’ double-decker scuttling its one brave passenger along to another world, another business park.
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