May 10, 2011 - Posted by jokyffin - 0 Comments
I’m just back from my best friend’s hen weekend in Devon; although the weekend was not in Denmark, nor was it Tivoli-themed, it was definitely frivolous, so I think I can crowbar it into this blog. Besides, it’s my blog, and you can’t stop me. So there.
We started with fizzy in the pub where La Bride used to work:
So far, so classic.
After this, it was time to equip the bride for her journey to the altar. First up: The Dress.
It had that elusive, classic, understated appeal we'd been searching for.
We had eschewed some of the more obvious ‘hen’ accoutrements (veil with L-plates, sashes, strippers, ASBOs for public disorderliness), but couldn’t forgo them altogether:
You may wish to enlarge the picture, and zoom in on the straw...
There were goody-bags, which some people put to very creative uses:
Then there was the ‘strike a pose competition’ which Lindsay won hands-down. Well, hands-up…
Although not without stiff competition from her sister:
We visited Greenway House, the holiday home of Agatha Christie (the bride’s a big fan), dressed as Miss Marple and the Marplets (Greatest Hits out now), for which some people got REALLY into character…
On the ferry there, we had pasties (well, it was Devon, and we were meant to be old ladies) and did a little detecting.
Disturbingly, I didn't need to buy any special clothes to dress as an old lady...
On the walk up to the house from the ferry stop, I counted no less than fourteen death stares from real old ladies (“it’s not FUNNY to be old, you know”), but on arrival, we realised that we hadn’t managed to offend all the visitors, so one hen nobly stepped into the breach:
The house was lovely, as was the cream tea afterwards (I told you we were in character), and we all had our knitting to keep us occupied on the boat trip home.
Whilst knitting, it's always nice to have someone read a few improving thoughts aloud.
Continuing the themes (Agatha Christie and the display of our outstanding thespian talents), we had a Murder Mystery dinner. In costume.
From L-R: Dee Sypher, Ivan Ego, Bride (soon to be transformed into Heidi Evidence), Claire (who sadly couldn’t stay all night), Sigmund Froid, Lida Hosen, Ed Lines (the tremendously talented Anna, who also played Herr Cutt); Front: Jean-Paul Gauteebeard and Maria VonTrapped.
Heidi Evidence, the Swiss banking clerk. A suspicious character.
Apparently, my character, Kiki De’Leggs did it. Well, you know what they say about the French… They’re all beret shady.
Sunday was spent enjoying the beautiful weather in Dartmouth, and then allowing the bride to finally do what she’d be longing to do all weekend: Nap on the sofa.
April 6, 2011 - Posted by jokyffin - 0 Comments
I know that my readers (stop snorting, it’s unladylike, and besides, I *do* have readers. My mum, for one…) must have thought that I was buried under a snow-drift, or at least had sustained some form of non-terminal, but digitally-incapacitating injury, but neither of these things was true. I was just busy. I’m still busy, but I do have some new things to tell you all. In the next post, when I upload photos.
Spring has arrived (AT LAST) and the weather has transformed from life-threateningly cold into a sort of familarly English grey semi-warmth. The moving forward of the clocks, and the ability to leave the house without first consulting The Penguin Book of Arctic Survival, has meant that exploring has become possible once again.
In my absence (I prefer ‘hibernation’, as it brings to mind bears and tortoises, either of which I would happily be reincarnated as), I imagined that the lack of posts would kill the spammers off.
*Hollow laugh*
No, they didn’t die off over the winter, they just became more… inventive. Like a virus. Or Simon Cowell.
Anyway. Here’s a selection of my favourites:
 Adam Sweetwood
bedbugexterminatorbrooklyn.info/
Idol@gmail.com
66.219.24.234 |
I needed to send you a very little note to be able to say thanks a lot as before on your precious tricks you have documented at this time. It’s quite pretty generous with people like you to grant freely all that a number of people might have marketed as an ebook to earn some cash for their own end, specifically given that you might have done it in the event you wanted. Those principles additionally acted to become a good way to be sure that someone else have the identical interest just like my own to know the truth a good deal more with regards to this matter. I’m sure there are lots of more pleasurable sessions up front for folks who looked over your site. |
Well, um, thanks, Adam. My ‘precious tricks’ are generally overlooked, and I hadn’t thought of publishing an e-book, but… shucks. Not sure what you mean by ‘pleasurable sessions up front’, but I’m going to try *really hard* to imagine you mean an activity that you do fully clothed and that wouldn’t make me want to scrub myself all over with a wire brush. Oh, and Adam, I’m not into bedbugs, but it was sweet of you to say we have ‘identical interest’.
Next we have someone who clearly thinks I am a LOT cooler than I actually am:
 clubbing dresses
Clubbing-Dresses.Net
Ehler56@gmail.com
173.208.47.222 |
I’m going to Amsterdam, Dublin, Paris, and London and planning on doing at least a bit clubbing over the entire trip. I do not even have a clue what to wear besides jeans along with a t-shirt and I’m assuming runners are just tennis shoes or does that consist of sneakers too? |
I would say, Ms Dresses, (Mr Dresses? somehow that seems wrong) that jeans and a t-shirt would be fine, although at the fancier nightclubs, you might want to consider pearls. As for your other question, well, I am not sure that runners like to be called ‘sneakers’. I think they prefer the term ‘athlete’.
I also had a couple of compliments:
Dominick, I *am* a super human. I have the power of spam-filter.
I believe this to be complimentary. I also understand that PLAYA is not just a capitalised Spanish word for beach (or indeed the term for an alkali flat or sabkha, a desert basin with no outlet which periodically fills with water to form a temporary lake) but is in fact a term of mild admiration. Thanks, Stan, and may I say, you and your colleague Dominick at MarketingServicesOnline have brightened up my day. Peace, BLUD.
But Dominick and Stan are not alone at their firm, which apparently is *filled* with followers of my intermittent ramblings. Take, for example, Kathaleen, who perhaps is a little more…susceptible?
Cult-leader – I’m not sure that was on the careers-advice form I filled in.
On a more serious note:
Scalp – it’s a serious issue.
Lastly, but absolutely-not-leastly, we have the charming Pikavippi.
Well, Pika-v, I’ve never been called ‘practical poop’ before, but I like it. Blithesomely.
January 6, 2011 - Posted by jokyffin - 2 Comments
Denmark, amongst its many other excellent qualities (and these are myriad, as you’ll know if you’ve been paying close attention) is not only pleasingly snowy, but it has an attitude to snow that puts other Northern European countries which sometimes get snow and are also islands (naming no names, obviously) to shame.
Last night a foot (conservative estimate) fell. Before I got up this morning, I peered out the window to see a snowplough passing by, and whilst I was eating breakfast I heard a couple of guys out in the back garden cheerfully shovelling the pathways clear.
‘Well’, I hear you say (I am very very good at hearing, even though you are very far away, and quite possibly reading this several weeks in the future. In fact, I am so good at hearing that I am tipped to be the next Doctor) ‘that’s because Denmark, being a Nordic country, has the infrastructure and resources, and overall, the need for such measures’. That’s not true, though. In fact, as this chart of meaningless predictions shows, ‘snow is rare’. Well, all I’ll say then, is that in twenty years time, I’m gonna enjoy boring EVERYONE senseless at Christmas with the tale of ‘the year in which it snowed a LOT in Copenhagen, which came just after another year where it snowed a lot too’. Just warning you.
Danes are as unflappable in the face of snow as they seem to be in most areas of life (with the notable and endearing exception of Danish men when confronted with an attractive female person). In fact, they are so overburdened with snow precautions, that they have spares lying about (although I suspect the Iraqis probably thought it was a very nice hyggelig thought, as long as a gift receipt was included, and they were open on Boxing Day for returns).
This morning, the cars that couldn’t get purchase on the few icy patches of road simply steered out of the way, or reversed, or just drifted until they found some tarmac they could usefully drive on. Nobody got cross. Nobody swerved wildly. Everyone was calm and attractively apparelled for the weather. The buses were a little fuller, yes, and it took a little longer to get anywhere. Nobody panicked. People still rode their bikes. It was groovy.
A groovy red bike in the snow
I even saw a lovely thing which turned out on closer inspection to be a car-shaped cover for multiple bicycles, to protect them from the elements:
Then, when I got to the harbour (I walked, because I am keen to test the potential of my shiny new Welligogs* to resist snow and cold, and ’cause, y’know, I’m just that devil-may-care), I realised the harbour had frozen.
Frozen harbour with misty bridge in background. That white field is water. Very cold water.
That’s right – it’s been cold enough for long enough that the harbour is frozen enough for snow to settle on the surface. This is a powerful amount of cold.
You’d expect this to be the focus of some hysteria, a little mild doom-mongering, no? No. According to the media (the bits I can read, at least), the only place that has been ‘hard-hit’ by snow this year is Bornholm, a tiny island to the east of Denmark’s main islands (closer to Sweden, actually). See the front page of the Copenhagen Post’s News section here. No stories about snow. Only one story in any way involving weather, and that was to do with fog.
Over Christmas in the UK, there were three separate occasions on which the entire public transport system curled up into a very small foetal ball and rocked itself gently, humming ‘It’s a Small World’ at the first sign of snow, meaning we couldn’t get anywhere. And that’s just us. The BBC (do a search, or just trust me), has approximately 74 000 stories about ‘snow disruption’, including the particularly cat’s-bum-mouth-y ‘Q&A: Snow Chaos and Your Rights‘.
I’m not going to harp on about how the UK should just pull itself together and get some snowploughs, and keep a stiff upper lip, and remember the war, and generally keep calm and carry on, because everyone says that. I’m just saying a bit of laid-back grooviness goes a long way. Especially downhill on a sledge.
*In case you were wondering: these boots are made for walking. On snow. And ice. I might embark on a circumpolar trek soon.
November 17, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 0 Comments
Gosh I’m a terrible blogger. I started out all gung-ho, writing every day, looking for amusing anecdotes to tell you, viewing everything through the lens of an imaginary camera (although not actually making the camera frame shape with my hands as a) I am neither David Bailey nor Austin ‘Danger’ Powers and b) that would make me look like a twat). A few months in, and I’m metaphorically lounging on the sofa in a day-old vest with egg-stains down the front yelling ‘Woman. Get me another beer. And make it COLD’.
Anyway, I’m going to try and make it up to you. I’m going to squeeze myself back into my awful shiny 1970′s wedding suit with the oversized lapels, Brylcreem my hair back and buy you twenty manky brown chrysanthemums from the garage. It’ll be like Shirley Valentine, only without Tom Conti as a frankly unconvincing Greek (although with lines like ‘Boat is boat, fuck is fuck’, realistically you would).
We had more lovely visitors this weekend, and managed to have a weekend of utter Danish-ness. Well, at least we did a lot of things which we convinced ourselves were Danish, and probably provided a lot of locals with free entertainment.
We did the canal tour again (no, it doesn’t get old, although it has to be said that our guide this time was disturbingly androgynous and not nearly as funny as the first two…).
Claire took some arty shots:
Later in the tour we spotted something to make up for the fact I am NEVER going to get a booking at Noma:
Lunch *and* Dinner?? Do you think we can just move in?
After we’d disembarked, we went to our favourite smørrebrod joint for lunch (actually, I’ll be honest, the only other place I’ve eaten it is the staff canteen at work, and the best that can be said about that is that it is cheap. Ish). We managed to discombobulate the lovely waiting lady by asking to share three starters and two main courses between 4 people, but asking for them all at once. Danes are *quite* fond of rules and regulations (in a groovy, laid-back, egalitarian, I’ll-kill-you-with-mind-bullets-shot-out-through-my-eyes-if-you-cross-the-road-when-the-lights-are-red kinda way), and mixing up the order of courses, combined with *whisper it* not having one dish each but sharing. Well. It’s a wonder we were allowed back out on the streets unsupervised.
We were going to indulge in a habit I’ve found to be delightfully, wonderfully, attractively Danish, namely the drinking of akavit (at all times of day, including relatively early in the morning, and often with a ‘beer chaser’), but we thought that might be pushing our luck. We were especially disappointed, because the table behind us ordered akavits all round, and then SANG A SONG when it arrived. If we’d known how cheery-making the stuff is, we’d have weathered our waitress’s obvious disgust at our buffoonery and gone for it. Although, according to that last link, there is a disturbing amount of eye-contact involved in the quaffing of this beverage. Perhaps not.
The next day, after a theme-appropriate breakfast of ‘products bought from a Danish supermarket’ (we were going to have bacon, but actually, most of the good stuff seems to get exported. Besides, dinner the night before was ‘Delicious Stew’ from our neighbourhood trad-Danish restaurant. The ‘delicious-ness’ of said stew resides largely in the quantities of crispy bacon on top and the sheer numbers of tiny cocktail sausages it contains), we headed up to Helsingør. If you say Helsingør quickly, in a Brits-on-holiday sort of way, you get something like ‘Elsinore’, which is exactly what Bill Shakespeare seems to have done. Kronberg Castle (or ‘Slot’, since we’re being über-Dansk) became the setting for the terminally over-studied and relentlessly navel-gazing Hamlet. Yes, I did it for A-Level too. Yes, and Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Mmmm. Amaaaaazing.
Anyway. First up there was the journey there. I bought some tickets from a machine at the station.We got on to the platform and realised that there was one space on the ticket to klip, so we merrily klipped it, thinking that was probably what was required.
On we got, and found some comfy sofas seats to plonk ourselves on. The very smartly dressed train conductress lady came and said something that I brilliantly interpreted as ‘Tickets please’, given that a) she was wearing a uniform which identified her as an employee of the train company and b) she was standing beside our seats with her hand out and an expectant look on her face. Yes, my genius is unbounded. If you do encounter me in the street, I don’t mind if you try and touch my sleeve.
I handed over our tickets. She said something. I said ‘Sorry, I don’t speak much Danish YET’. (The ‘yet’ is a new thing, since I’ve started Danish classes). She repeated: ‘This ticket is not valid for this train’. We smiled, in the faint hope that this was an amusing rite of passage for all foreigners. She did not indicate that this was the case. Rather, she indicated that she had the power to impose a 600kr fine on each of us (about £68). We stopped smiling. She kindly allowed us to disembark the train at the next stop, and buy proper tickets.
We went to the machine at the next stop and tried again, but this time ended up with four lavishly priced single tickets… Finally I admitted defeat and went to talk to the man in the ticket shop. After much tutting at my reckless enthusiasm for attempting to buy tickets unaided, he not only sold me the correct tickets, but refunded the others on the spot. In English. I love this country.
So, Helsingør. The Castle is fab, although being searingly honest, the State Rooms were a bit budget-National-Trust, but the rest was outstanding, especially the ‘casemates’, which were basically the hobbit-holes in which they kept wine, non-perishable food and soldiers (who were perishable, but this was considered unimportant), and which were not only pleasingly dark and dank, but were not tainted by any sense that the staff cared overly whether visitors emerged intact from the gloom. We also had been encouraged to buy torches from a vending machine before we entered, which added to the ‘Five* Go into the Dungeons of a Castle with only Two Torches and the most Rudimentary Understanding Of What is Down There’ feel.
*there were Four of us. Famous Five still rule though. And we might get a dog one day.
All in, Kronberg/Elsinore is fab. I’ve put together my favourite images, although it has to be said that a) nothing can capture the bitterly cold day on which these photos were taken and b) we found that by the time we reached the ‘Maritime Museum’ at the end, we were all in a state of hypothermic hysteria. You’ll see how the artistry disintegrates near the end…
Pete is channeling Luke Skywalker. He doesn't realise that the Danes call the water between Denmark and Sweden the 'Sound', not the 'Forth', so his dreadful joke is going to fall flat...
Yes, that is Sweden. The Castle is at the narrowest point, for the purposes of extracting more tax from the passing shipping trade. Oh yes, the Danes have *always* loved tax.
It's like Hogwarts, but more literary, and with soliloquies. And death.
See how amusing I am? Pete and Gus are impressed, can't you tell?
This is a *very* fancy lion. He even has lipstick. Not even Aslan has lipstick. No. Ha.
Claire and I found it amusing enough to play Captains in the fake bridge that the boys were convinced we'd sneaked ahead and gone to the coffee shop.
October 17, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 1 Comment
Now, this may be superabundantly obvious to many of you. Travelodge are in fact, a chain of cheap h/motels scattered across the UK, and possibly Europe (possibly they have a branch on the Moon, I don’t really care). They have always been a pretty reliable, if dull, place to stay. Not for them the antics of Lenny Henry pretending that he is actually skint/in touch with reality despite his millions/so thrilled with the purpleness of it all that he might just give up that suite at Claridges for good. Oh no. They know they can trade on motorway slip-road locations, provision of a teeny-tiny kettle and a few ancient sachets of decaff, and the guaranteed proximity of either a Little Chef or Berni Inn to attract a regular clientele.
So, a few weekends ago, when my partner and I needed a place to stay in London for a night, we decided to ‘Travelodge-it’ as no-one ever says.
What can I say? It was a moment of madness, we’ll regret it forever, we’ve never done anything like it before, we didn’t think about the consequences.
I was going to say it was like staying at Fawlty Towers, but that would be inaccurate. Fawlty Towers was funny. And each episode only lasted half an hour, so you always knew there was an end in sight.
I think the paradigmatic moment of our stay was when we finally admitted to ourselves that really, only one of those four lifts was actually in working order, as the others had shown no sign of movement, and one had a funny smell, a bit like the rotting corpse of a dead rat that’s chewed through the cable of a lift, only to realise that the sensible thing would have been to chew above the lift cage rather than below…
We took the stairs.
These stairs:
Oh yeah. That, my friends, is hotel luxury living.
Never mind, we thought, it’s only stairs. It’s easy to leave them in a state of total disrepair for years and years and never ever replace the disturbingly sticky green ‘carpet’, and let tramps wee in the corners – who hasn’t? We’ll just follow these signs to the Breakfast Room:
Apparently, though, these signs actually meant “the Breakfast room is not located in this stairwell. It is located in another part of the hotel entirely. Please feel free to wander around aimlessly until you realise that the ‘Bistro’ that last night was serving overpriced warm beer and gammon steaks with pineapple to hapless foreign visitors (‘Honey, I know they said the food here was bad – but what the **** is this tinned fruit doing on my slice of dead man’s thigh?’) has now, through the transformative power of two food warming stations and four hundred hungry guests metamorphosed into the Breakfast room. Travelodge wishes you a pleasant stay.”
“P.S. I’d hurry. There’s a hen night in, and they’re ripping into the “sausages”. Good luck.”
Having located said breakfasting establishment, via a compass and a couple of local guides, we then set about acquiring sufficient cutlery and china from which to partake of the fine ‘All You Can Eat Breakfast’ (trust me, that’s not a foolish boast; it’s medically impossible, or at least woefully ill advised, recklessly devil-may-care, and quite possibly in contravention of a brace of Health and Safety laws to eat more than a forkful). Now, I’ve been accused of being fussy before, and trust me, I wasn’t holding out for a full service, with linen tablecloths, crystal glasses and perhaps a tasteful string quartet in the background, but I do think that two people ought to be allocated more than one plate, one fork, three knives and a mug between them at breakfast time. I may, in the privacy of my own home (or office) from time to time stir my coffee with a knife (sometimes even a knife with butter and toast crumbs on), but that is my business, and I don’t normally do it in public. Need must, however, and it has to be said that the bacon-grease did give their coffee an otherwise absent sense of flavour and body.
We eschewed the lifts on the return journey, and opted for the stairs again, and thank goodness we did, because we stumbled on the best thing about this hotel:
A left-over, half-drunk can of someon else’s warm Stella. Yummy.
Apparently though, we shouldn’t panic, as this is all part of Travelodge’s cunning plans; although if I were them I’d find the title of Britain’s second-biggest budget hotel operator a teensy bit upsetting. Like getting the ‘Effort’ award at Prize Day, having to shake hands with creepy Dr Arbuthnot the Deputy Head, then finding it was book tokens all along.
September 13, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 1 Comment
Now, I know it’s not really in keeping with the theme of all things frivolous, but I’ve just been to the dentist (forced there by toothache and a nagging sense that it was only a matter of time before all my teeth fell out). I’ve always been too broke to have very good dentistry, and relied on the Dental Hospital in Liverpool, and the student service (where 2nd year students work on your teeth for free) (Yes, really. Students.)
I HATE the dentist. I can’t possibly express in words how utterly terrifying I find it. It’s not the pain that I fear (although I don’t actively embrace pain, don’t get me wrong). It’s the fear that they will tut a lot, then tell me that there’s nothing for it, they’ll have to take out four teeth, and I’ll be left drinking soup through a straw, and looking like a crack whore.
So, as you can imagine, I was somewhat nervous this morning. I made Gus come with me, and actually come into the treatment room with me and hold my hand.
They did the usual pokey pokey, talking in code thing, but of course the code was in Danish, so I didn’t get to hear that scary ‘Occlusion R6′ whatever else it is they say that translates in my head as ‘They’re all coming out. Get used to dentures’. Then some x-rays.
Then the (very good looking, which, yes, did help) dentist said I needed two root canals and a good cleaning. Once they’d brought me round with smelling salts, he basically dived in and got on with it. This was a very sensible plan, as he could clearly see I was a Bolter.
An hour later, and with absolutely no pain whatsoever, I have a dead root and a temporary filling, and I’m going back tomorrow for more. The other root canal. And some scrubbing of the pegs. And I’m not quite so terrified. Except by the bill… £900… It’s an investment, right?
September 5, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 0 Comments
Roskilde, home of the Vikings. Well, home of the Viking ship museum, anyway. And, if I were a Viking, I’d probably buy a nice little place in Roskilde (thatched cottage, roses around the door, ample harbourage for the longboat, storage for all the spoils of my pillaging, double garage, utility room).
It’s pretty easy to cycle to Roskilde from Copenhagen (and I speak as one who considered such an endeavour to be akin to lunacy this morning, before we set off), mainly since you just follow one road pretty much all the way. That’s 31km. Yup. Some of it is even gently uphill.
Once you hit the town, the museum is signposted at every junction, which usually makes me suspicious (like the Cillit Bang adverts – if it really were that effective, why would they need to SHOUT?)
However, this is one place that deserves any number of signposts.The setting, on the fringe of Roskilde fjord, in which the ships were discovered in the 1960s, is utterly lovely:
The museum consists of an archaeological workshop where the friendly people will happily answer any number of questions about the discoveries, several areas where they do reconstructions (archers and bowmakers, shipbuilders etc), a harbour full of reconstructed boats (long and otherwise), the opportunity to take a little jaunt on one of these boats (we declined politely), a special exhibition detailing the experimental archaeological reconstruction of one of the longboats, and the sailing of it from Ireland to Roskilde (there’s even a film of the voyage), and of course, the lovely ships themselves. There’s even a diorama of the events that led to the ships being scuttled in the first place.
This is my attempt at 'arty'...
Roskilde not only has Vikings a-plenty, it also has a rather funky cathedral, which was the first Gothic cathedral to be built of brick, and is the burial place of the kings and queens of Denmark (this practice dates back to the 15th century). For once, the cathedral isn’t surrounded by tat and squished up against other, incongruous buildings, but sits in the middle of an empty square, which definitely increases the impact:
The interior isn’t too shabby either:
The various sarcophagi/coffins/impressive marble monuments which may or may not contain bodies were very cool and spread all over the cathedral, some in side chapels, some in the main body of the church, and a number in crypts beneath the choir. I enjoyed looking at them all, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a little bit like touring the best funeral parlour in the world, picking out your eternal resting-box from the ultimate selection:
Black and Silver. Definitely. Oooh, or maybe the one behind, with all the bronze cherubim...
Oooh no, covered in lots of little figures. Definitely.
This one would reflect my love of pretty shoes...
That's DEFINITELY the one. Black, velvet, swags, *and* fringing. Which is very in right now.
End-of-life logistical and style decisions all taken care of, we hopped on the train home. Roskilde rocks. And I hear they have some kind of festival of music too – I’m guessing it’s like the Proms, right?
August 31, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 0 Comments
Okay, the title’s a bit of a giveaway – I should have held you all in suspense (when I say all, I mean both of you), and only at the end revealed that I have finally lived up to the name of the blog. Hum ho – back to Riting 101 for me…
Have had a lovely lovely lovely few days – lots of pics to share.
First up, Victoria, a very good friend, turned 30. She did so in classic and graceful style, as was to be expected, and I was invited along, presumably to provide comic relief/make all the other guests feel cool.
The decor was most appropriate for the event, and set the tone.
Dinner was very good fun, and the company soon retired to Stamford‘s second-finest discotheque, ‘Central‘. As you’ll see from the review, Central offers such amenities as ‘being open many nights’ and ‘comfy seating’ (the first thing I look for in a nightclub these days). Luckily we’d brought our own entertainment, in the form of The World’s Tallest Man:
Will was delighted to be approached by two pretty ladies who asked him if he was *actually* a giant.
My particular highlight? Standing outside, only to overhear some youngish rapscallions walking past, excitedly observing that they could, in fact, go into said establishment, since ‘my dad gave us four quid’.
On to Saturday night, and this time a Hen Party, for the lovely Louisa, this time in Soho. Again, I hear you cry, what were you doing in such a cool place? I know, but Louisa is a lady of infinite charity. Lou made a lovely speech, during which she became slightly emotional in her delight to have so many friends there, only to find at the end of the speech that her closest friend had in fact been visiting the Ladies during said oration:
I think she's spotted her...
Louisa soon recovered her admirable composure, and it was business as usual:
Louisa's left arm is entirely normal. Her right arm is long enough to have curled round, so that it is visible in the bottom left hand corner of this photo.
Then it was back to Copenhagen, and readying ourselves for the first visitors – Victoria (yes, the same one. She is terribly jet-set) and her sister Charlie. We decided that the ultimate way to see a coastal city was from the water, so did the DFDS canal tour of Copenhagen, which departs from Nyhavn:
Yes - the 'famous' bit. Sigh.
This is a pretty comprehensive tour of all the main sites of Copenhagen – well, the ones visible from the water anyway. My office would have been on the tour, but sadly we do not have a waterside location. Obviously all the other tours feature us prominently. In fact, some days it’s hard to get much done, what with all the day-trippers peering at us.
We sailed past some of the more eclectic abodes of Christiania, many of which are vulnerable to attack by the Big Bad Wolf:
Hit the road, Jack...
We also passed the well-known Danish Centre for Space Exploration and General Taking Over of the Universe:
En route, Gus was quite overcome by the sights, and decided to renounce Satan and live a pure and virtuous existence in future:
Then, after a DELICIOUS lunch, of traditional smørrebrod (with plenty of herring, for added authenticity), we made it to Tivoli:
Tivoli, the Eighth Wonder of the Modern World
We decided to ride the ‘Himmelskibet’, or Sky-Flyer, which has some of the best views of the city:
The carousel not only had more exotic beasties than I am used to, but also had an old dude riding on his own (‘just cause’) AND an Egyptian themed rubbish bin:
Bliss.
There was even an ad-hoc petting zoo:
Let me see you shake your tail-feather.
And, as if I didn’t already love Tivoli enough (and let’s face it, I loved it enough to propose and consider starting a family):
Tea and rollercoasters. My two favourite things. In one place. Yes, I will die happy now.
Here, I am indulging in the extreme sport known as 'Two-Kinds-Of-Tea-Drinking'. Iced Tea and Chai Tea. Who says I don't live on the edge?
That weekend, with our next visitor in town (yes, we are the new holiday hotspot. Rough Guide to Jo and Gus’s flat in Copenhagen, forthcoming 2011), we returned to Tivoli (having done the Carlsberg factory tour in the morning), and this time, we bought SEASON PASSES. In honour of our shrewd investment, Tivoli threw a parade:
This made Nayen, our visitor so happy (and cold) that he had to have a cup of tea:
It's the sheepskin that saves this picture from being too girly, I think.
After that, obviously, we went on all of the scary rides (some of them twice), which made me happy, left Gus hoping it would be time to go home soon, and left Nayen wanting more tea:
Shortly after this, Gus and Nayen had to bind me hand and foot, and carry me, kicking and screaming, out of the park. Don't worry, I'll be back.
August 24, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 4 Comments
Since I started blogging (oooh, get me, I sound like some kind of internet wizard…Harry Potter and the Hacking of the Pentagon), I didn’t really expect anyone except friends and family to read my witterings. Obviously, I hoped that perhaps in time, my deathless prose and keen observational style would attract the attention of a minor, independent publishing house, who would offer me a modest book deal, leading to perhaps a permanent newspaper column or slot on Radio 4 (just after Women’s Hour would be great, btw), and regular appearances on This Morning, culminating in being invited onto an episode of QI (and, if the producers are reading, please may I sit next to Sue Perkins or David Mitchell, as I have crushes on both of them?)
What I didn’t expect was the sheer number of spammers who have tried to comment on the various postings. I’m almost tempted to approve some of the comments, since they have a *unique* style, and a certain je ne sais quoi about them…
For example:
Thats a genuinely wonderful post with needed Info.
Thank you for your assist.
That’s (sorry, ‘thats’) from ‘eyelash grower’. Not sure if the name suggests a particularly obscure hobby, or a fondness for out-there pharmaceuticals. Possibly both. I was flattered, until I realised that the comment applied to the post ‘Fleas and Ants’, which was me describing my recent trip to the flea markets. Not entirely sure how this ‘Info’ was ‘needed’, but certainly glad to have provided ‘assist’.
Next up is ‘Ready to Assemble Kitchen Cabinets’ (how kind!)
You might have really a awareness personal posting design and offer
quite info. The content articles are nice to study and you don´t
use whole lot ads like every one of the other bloggers.
I’ve never had anyone compliment my ‘awareness posting design and offer quite info’ before. At least, I think it’s a compliment, however cautiously phrased. Also pleased to see that my posts are finally making it onto various curricula. Copenhagen Ephemera 101 classes have a lot to thank me for.
Finally, we have ‘eyelash grower’s older (and tragically malcoordinated) brother, ‘regrow eyebrows’, who says:
Very wonderful desgin of your respective website.
It truly is individual and compares to your posts.
Don´t give up and make your private point!
He likes my ‘desgin’! I’m so glad *someone* finally noticed. The website, being respective, clearly would ‘compare to my posts’. Otherwise, there would be a desgin-fault. I certainly shan’t be giving up, regrow eyebrows, but I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable talking about my ‘private point’ in public.
August 14, 2010 - Posted by jokyffin - 4 Comments
I named this blog intending to go to Tivoli…oh, let’s say, once a day (at a conservative estimate). So far, I haven’t been once, so today I am pleased to report that Copenhagen has conspired to provide huge amounts of frivolity.
It’s not the loveliest of days today, so I thought I’d just cycle into town and see where the fancy took me (suspecting that fancy might lead me directly to a cosy coffee shop to read my book. I ended up parking near the Round Tower (Rundetaarn), built by Christian IV (who seems to have been a direct descendent of Ramesses II, or at the very least was hoping that Roy Castle and Cheryl Baker were going to take notice one day), with an observatory on top, and built as a spiral ramp rather than staircase, apparently so that the Chris-ster could ride his horse up there, rather than having to walk like a mere mortal. I didn’t go up (Gus is arriving soon, and I’m trying to save some things to do with him), but it’s pretty impressive even from the outside:
Round? Check. Tower? Check.
Continuing into town, I found a shop called Lisbeth Dahl, which could be described as ‘girl-crack’. I spent about an hour in there, emitting high-pitched squeaks of excitement, and wondering how many things I could legitimately buy that have no discernable function, but which are excessively decorative. I invested in a couple of candle holders, but only as part of my quest to fit in here (no self-respecting Dane would live without candles, on hand at all times).
A few shops further on, I found the Danish version of Cath Kidston. I didn’t take any pictures, as I was too busy stroking things and imagining how much BETTER my life would be if I had a set of flamingo-handled cake forks.
Then I spotted a bookshop, and outside, saw this little gem for sale:
Legitimate academic treatise. Also, a topic I *wish* I'd thought of for my PhD.
A few yards further on there was this dude:
You can tell he's a dude because a) he is wearing a hat, and b) he is wearing sunglasses on a day which is best described as 'almost dry'.
He was playing a kind of jazz-funk fusion, which was totally inkeeping with the vibe of today. Rispeck’.
The views in this part of town are quite pretty too:
That must be it, I thought to myself. Surely one city cannot produce more coolness than this in a single afternoon?
I stopped for a coffee, and gloated a little over my gorgeous candle holders. Then I noticed there was quite a lot of music and general merriment coming from the street. I wandered back out to have a wee look, and found two things. The first was a man, wearing a pair of pants on his head, being wheeled about in a little cart by his ‘friends’, wearing a sign around his neck, which said (I think) “I am getting married. Please help me. I need kisses”. He was appealing to charitable young ladies to ease his passage into connubial bliss with a modest peck on the cheek. Bless. He had quite a few takers.
The second, according to the signs surrounding it, was the ‘World’s Longest Catwalk’. When the Danes say something is the longest, they REALLY mean it:
But wait, there's more...
Still more to come...
You thought I was joking about the 'World's Longest' part, didn't you?
That's the last of it. Nearly. It went round the edge of the square here, and vanished off over the horizon. Since I wasn't carrying survival rations, the catwalk and I parted ways here.
I didn’t wait around to see the show, but I’m pretty sure the marshals along the side weren’t just there for security, but had stashes of Twixes in their bags to hand out to the models. Otherwise, the place would have been littered with very skinny, very exhausted people in posh frocks.
That’s definitely it, I thought. There can’t possibly be anything left. I’m absolutely sure…
I see your Proms in the Park, and I raise you a 'Royal Theatre'.
As I arrived, a group of children were dancing on one stage, and by the time I’d parked and wandered in (it seemed to be free), there was a chappie belting out the All-Time Top 10 Opera Hits:
Yup. That's Nessun Dorma. In Danish (subtitles).
In true Danish fashion, the orchestra were in jeans and t-shirts. It seems from the programme, as if this outdoor theatre is part of the repertoire of the Royal Theatre, showing ballet, opera, concerts and dance performances throughout the summer. As far as I can make out, all the outdoor stuff is free…
Have I mentioned how much I love this place?
I got back to the hotel (almost for the last time, as I move house tomorrow), thinking that surely my day of joy and wonderment was over. Not so. The lady who cleans my room has taken great delight, in the last few weeks, in arranging various of my possessions in cute/eccentric ways each week. She’s made me laugh every time, but this was by far the funniest:
Any comments about the age at which it is appropriate to travel with one's stuffed bear will be disregarded. That bear rocks.
Dominick Barios
Stan Jasik
Kathaleen Alexidor
Annita Swymer
pikavippi
