Red Walls And A Purple Haze

Indigo In Marrakech - Part 3

Even from half a mile away, the Koutoubia Mosque is impressive. I walk towards it with a growing sense of awe, and by the time I'm two hundred metres away, I'm lost for words.

I've had a fascination with Islamic architecture since I visited Tunisia few years ago and saw the Mosque of Uqba in Kirouain.

The guide book tells me that Koutoubia is the most important mosque in Morocco, and the most impressive. It also tells me that it was completed in 1199, which tickles me. I live in Cambridge in England, and Cambridge University was founded in 1209. So even though the University's history begins four hundred years before an Englishmen set foot on American soil, this magnificent mosque pre-dates it. Cool.

I wander around around the grounds of the mosque, challenged only by a group of young kids. They pester me for money - perhaps they also need eye operations? - but I ignore them. I do this partly out of a sense of financial preservation - they've proven to be devious little sods so far - but mostly because I'm too busy taking photos. They take the hint and wander off in search of weaker prey.

After an hour of this, I fancy a sit down. I check my map, and find that the city tour bus stops nearby. Better yet, I can get off if I find something I want to explore, and get back on the next one that arrives. Armed with a fresh bottle of fizz from my rucksack, I stride in search of a bustop.

Ten minutes later, I am sitting on the bus. What a piece of luck, I reflect; back home I'd be standing for an hour until two arrive at once. With a seat under my backside and a cold drink in my hand, I'm feeling pretty good.

It doesn't last; the bus draws away and starts driving towards the newer end of the city. This doesn't interest me, as one city's business district is much the same as another. And of course, there are a few more western influences. Oh yes, there's one now.

This annoys and amuses me in equal measure.

After a five minute pitstop during which I dash to pick up more drinks, the bus move on and, so my surprise, leaves the city completely. On a closer read of the map, I realise that this is the extra long version of the tour; I should have changes buses when I bought the drinks. Hell, maybe I did change buses?

Either way, I'm not amused. And half an hour later, my mood has not improved; all I have seen or discovered is that the dusty road we're on is long, straight and bumpy as hell. Thankfully, we pause for a few minutes close to a remote housing development, which has presumably been built out here to offer a clear view of the Atlas Mountains. Maybe we're here to give us the opportunity to stop-and-shop for a house? Yay. But still, it's worth a photo, just to capture the Hendrix-esque purple haze between us and the mountains.

I check the map again, work out where we are, and realise that there's maybe an hour of driving until we make our way back into Marrakech.

Again, I am not amused. It's almost 40°C/104°F degree heat - though thankfully humidity is low - and my head is not covered.

So far today, my head is proving to be my weakness.

Continued in Part 4 - An Interlude With Mint Tea

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Ambushes In Waiting

Indigo In Marrakech - Part 2

As I step out into the alleyway, it's 10am. And even though I'm in shade, the heat is already oppressive. I'm glad I left my light jacket behind; I would have been carrying it all day.

The alleyway is a little less intimidating in the light of day. That said, were this a John Wayne western, I would be certain that this long, straight, high-sided brick canyon was an ambush waiting to happen.

And I'm half right. Within twenty yards, I am accosted by two young lads, who are maybe ten or eleven years old. I presume they are either beggars or opportunists, and don't make the mistake of stopping; that indicates interest, kindness, weakness, or that I am a sucker.

I don't wish any of those messages to be conveyed.

They mistake me for a German. This happens a lot. I am 6'5", of imposing build, and have short hair. I am told I look quite serious, which may also be a factor. I shake my head and say English as I stride away down the alleyway. They are not impressed, and ask me (in French) if I speak French. I nod and the older boy starts chattering away to me. I get about half of it. It seems he thinks I am lost, and he wants to show me around. I decline politely and keep walking, fairly sure I'm heading the right way to reach to find the main city square.

His salesmanship is admirable; he remains cheery and again offers to help, and then says something I don't quite catch which suggests I really don't want to be going that way. I am now less sure my heading is correct. I slow slightly, and ask him how much his assistance will cost? He looks offended, and says he will do it for nothing.

I stop and eye him suspiciously, and he repeats this. He swears it is true, and rattles off an oath that involves either his deity or his mother; he's talking too quickly to tell. He smiles angelically.

He also waves his friend away without losing eye contact with me. His friend runs off in search of another sucker.

I ask him if I am going the right way for the main square and he nods. Walking ahead of me, he points and talks a lot. We're buzzed by a couple of mopeds, which unsettles me a little. I suddenly realise he's asking me questions which are sliding past me. He mentions Manchester United and David Beckham. I chuckle at his bizarre pronunciation of Oon-ee-ted, which he takes to be a good sign.

Of course, in a hundred yards, I know where I am from the night before: straight on to the main road and probably the Djemaa el Fna city square; turn right to enter the Soukh, the covered market. The guide book encouraged me to visit the Soukh, and even as I stand there with a view of coloured silks, spices and metal trinkets, I'm tempted to head straight in.

But by reputation it is a hive of generic alleyways bustling with stalls, shops and beggars. I think I'd like to be a bit more outdoors until I find my feet.

I check with my guide if the square is indeed straight on. He nods, and I thank him for his time. I say I no longer need a guide. He starts to protest, but quickly senses I am serious; he asks me for some money. I say no, and remind him he wanted no money for his services. He shakes his head, and says he is sick, and needs an operation.

I am not certain he uses the French for voluntary donation as he rapidly expounds his position, but I'll bet it's in there somewhere.

Well, I admit to myself that I did accept his help (sucker) and I was always likely to give him something for his trouble (sucker). But sucker or not, I don't believe a word of the operation story. Still. I pull a small-ish Dirham note from my pocket. He looks at it with disdain and his pitch goes up a gear. He finds a few words of English from somewhere and - pointing at his face - explains more about his operation.

It is my eyes. My eyes!

I start to withdraw the note and he quickly takes it from me. His mission accomplished, the young pirate salutes, says he will see me again, and runs off.

Unbelievable. A hundred yards into my journey and I've already been relieved of some money.

I feel pretty stupid.

As I wander towards the main square, I'm determined to not let it happen again.

Djemaa el Fna (Place of the Vanished Mosque) is a striking destination, a wide open area surrounded by low buildings. It is the main market for the city, but it is not quite the Arabian bazaar I had expected it to be. There's quite a few vehicles and bicycles, and many people are dressed in a western style.

Still, there are signs of history, even if it is perhaps only for us tourists. A snake charmer weaves his spell with a large cobra, and there are a number of jugglers and acrobats. I slow to take a photo of the snake charmer, and immediately get accosted by five brightly-dressed musicians. They dance around me, smiling and singing, pop a traditional Moroccan hat on my head, and make me the centre of attention for a couple of minutes. Quite a few locals and tourists stop to take in the show, which undeniably is a lot of fun. I don't feel threatened by it, even when one relieves me of my camera and takes some photos of me* with the remainder of his troupe.

[* I'm carrying a lot of weight in this photo. Two years later, I am 70-pounds lighter. Do not show it to children or police horses; they may be startled. ]

My camera is returned, and they ask me for money.

Resigned to a second light loss, I pull my wallet. A quick scan identifies a note that I think will be appropriate for the five of them. The man I assume to be the leader whips the note deftly from my grasp, offers up thanks to heaven and does a runner. The four others look to me, indicating they'll see none of it. They move a little closer too, not in an aggressive way, but one that says they expect to be paid.

I sigh and hand a few more notes out. What the hell, the notes aren't worth much (sucker) and they did give me a good show (sucker).

Singing and cheering, they melt away into the crowd.

I look at my wallet and think for a moment. I check the remaining notes. I check again. Dammit, I gave them each around ten pounds sterling!

No wonder they were singing.

Only smaller denomination notes remain; less than half of my holiday cash is left. Good grief, I've only been out of the hotel for ten minutes! And I'm half tempted to go back there before the rest vanishes!

But the beautiful centre-piece mosque for the city awaits my pleasure, and it is in walking distance. I head to a café to settle my nerves, check my map, and have a lemonade. This seems to help.

But I still feel like a total dick.

As I wander away from Djemaa el Fna, I am determined to not let it happen again.


Continued in Part 3 - Red Walls And A Purple Haze

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Manners Maketh The Man

Indigo In Marrakech - Part 1

As I wake up in Marrakech for the first time, I'm pleased to discover that I'm a bit calmer than the day before, which was long and difficult.

The flight into Morocco from Stanstead? Troublesome. The taxi to downtown from the airport? Fast and dangerous. The long walk along a tall-walled and seemingly endless alleyway to my house/hotel? Intimidating.

And my realisation that they really didn't speak any English? And that I would have to rely on my broad-but-hazy high school French?

Words failed me. Literally.

But then, I never enjoy the first day of a holiday much; I find the upheaval and change of scenery a bit disorienting and stressful. So far, Marrakech has proven to be no different than any other trip.


My top-floor room above a two-storey courtyard is bright, well-fitted and rather cheery. I shower, dress and go up a short flight of stairs to the roof. The view, while not spectacular, is encouraging; an old red-walled city with palm trees, blue skies, and sunshine.


Breakfast at this family-run riad is a solitary affair. My bad French alone could have guaranteed that, but it seems I am the only guest staying today. But the food is good. The fluffy egg pancakes are delicious and hot, the coffee strong and pleasantly rough, and the strange fried almondy things taste far better than they look.


I offer my thanks in Arabic (I have a handful of polite utterances at my disposal) to the beautiful young lady waiting on me, which goes down better than my attempts at French.

I am rewarded with a second cup of coffee and a lovely smile.

As I sit thinking about the day ahead, I peruse my French dictionary. As I pass a summary of restaurant words, I realise that I asked for the bill earlier, when I meant the menu. Oops. Not that they had a menu; they had breakfast. This explains the puzzled look I'd received from the daughter of the house.

I grin wryly; I know it won't be the final linguistic fumble of the trip.

I'd briefly considered and dismissed the language barrier, which as soon as I hit the airport I realised was a mistake. On a previous trip to the relaxed Arabic state of Tunisia, they had spoken half a dozen languages, three of which I could muddle by in, including English. So I'd assumed that Morocco would be similar?

Wrong. They speak three things: Arabic; French; and Nothing Else.

I'm not worried. My French will hold up. I think. It may even be fun.

The day awaits, and I feel surprisingly upbeat about it.

Continued in Part 2 - Ambushes In Waiting

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

No More Inspired Shortcuts

So here I am, back in dear Old Blighty after a week in Ireland.

I was going to start today's post with an heroic image of myself, but I decided against it. I would love to tell you that I look tanned and bright eyed from my holiday, but the truth is I'm a bit après-vacation, as the French might say if they felt the need to express such a concept.

That's a polite way of saying that I'm tired, unwashed and looking a bit punch drunk; not very photogenic.

Nothing a few pizzas and some sleep won't cure, of course.

And don't misunderstand; I had a terrific time in Ireland.

But I did a lot of driving, something like 1000 miles, and a couple of four-hour ferry journeys. That kind of road trip is unlikely to raise an eyebrow from an American or a Canadian, but here in England those are pretty big numbers. For context, the furthest corner of England is just 365 miles away from where I live, and most of the coastline and borders are considerably closer.

I knew this in advance. I also knew that I've developed a tendency to occasionally get lost in the car. Ok, I get lost a lot. This is not a good thing on a journey that's too long in the first place.

So, I prepared myself. I bought a SatNav system. Quite a nice one, too. And while I was on the road, it did all the things it had promised to do.

First - it stopped me getting lost.

I can honestly say it did not put a foot wrong at any point over the week. No motorway junctions missed because I was too busy singing, laughing or reading a map. None of my "inspired" shortcuts. No cursing while I drove seemingly in circles in town centres on the last mile of the journey.

Of course, I ignored the SatNav on a couple of occasions - mostly early in the trip while I was learning to trust it - and ended up turning round in dead-end country lanes for my sins, but the unit itself performed flawlessly.

It always knew where I was, it knew where I was going, and it got me to lovely places like this: (click to see a larger version)

And before you ask, this isn't taken from the water; I was not directed to take a long drive off a short pier. This was snapped from an excellent boat tour, on which I spied many seals, birds and porpoises.

All very cool. So, let's move on.

Second - it stopped me having to sit in traffic queues.

Well, it minimised the time wasted in congestion, which is pretty damned close. The system picked up traffic news automatically, warned me of delays, and automatically offered me other routes where possible. I even had a couple of instances of messages like this:

Congestion ahead. There is another route calculated that will save you 53 minutes. Do you want to switch to this new route?

It was polite of it to ask, even though my answer was obvious. Anyway, I didn't have to sit stationary on any major road for more than a few minutes.

Of course, when you're trying to get from A to Z, sometimes you simply have no choice but to go through X. This is often true in Ireland where there is sometimes only one road to get you where you're going, especially near the more remote bits of coastline. So yes, I sat through a few brief jams in tiny, unavoidable towns. But the towns were very pretty for the most part, and I didn't get frustrated by sitting for a few minutes behind a donkey-drawn cart. As a result, I arrived at impressive places like this without tearing my hair out:

All good so far. So, onto the final advantage.

Third - it stopped me having to think about my route.

This one is another boon on the face of it, but the consequences of it caught me totally off guard.

Yes, I didn't have to read a map at any point.

Yes, I arrived at my destination in good time with minimum fuss.

But actually, sitting here now, I know very little about where I've been. I know the end points and the route at the start of the journey, but all of the routes changed significantly on the way. Up popped the redirection message, I accepted it, and off I drove into the great unknown.

So while I stopped to take photos like the one below, I have no idea where I actually was when I took them. I can't look at a map and point to it and say yeah, I was there.

Beautiful, isn't it? Wish I knew where it was.

And actually, moving from A to Z efficiently also robbed me of one of the more interesting aspects of travel; getting lost. That may sound contradictory, but I've found over the years that many of the more memorable events on a holiday happen when things don't go according to plan. When you get lost, you explore more*, you notice cool things*, and you talk to people* - often badly in their own language* - many of whom turn out to be interesting folk*. They tell you stories*, they give you local advice*, and often they try and sell you things*.

[* Remind me to tell you some tales of my trip to Marrakech, the original City of Getting Lost.]

Of course, I'm lucky that none of these local incidents have involved robbery or anything unsavoury, but these are always the stories I tell people when I talk about my travels.

And I have no stories like that from Ireland.

I did what I went there to do, and that was fun.

But the SatNav was a mixed blessing.

Fast, efficient travel is a wonderful thing if all you're worried about is the destination.

But if you're trying to experience a new country, and want to remember a little more about the journey, buy a map.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Season Three: Prologue

The man wakes from a dreamy sleep. The bed is warm under him, the duvet cool.

He is back in his room, he knows this. But when? Through cracked eyes, the light tells him it is early morning. Memory seeps back in. Twelve hours of driving and ferries, and finally, mercifully, sleep.

Even though he is indoors, he reaches his hand out of the bed and holds it there for a few seconds.

It stays dry. It is no longer raining.

A small dog stirs by his feet.

Toto, he says, I don't think we're in Ireland anymore.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Season Two Finale

The plane is fuelled by the time dusk falls, pink and orange boiling into indigo. Its propellers spin up noisily as we walk across the runway.

As I look about, I don't recognise where I am. Arizona? Nevada? It looks like the some vast salt flat or spirit-level desert with mountains a few miles to the east. Could be Utah, I suppose, or Tunisia even?

I don't think to ask my companion. He's been trying to talk me out of this all day and frankly he's been pissing me off.

Besides, where I am is not important. Tonight is about the destination, not the starting point. And for once it’s not even about the journey. This goes against the grain, but sometimes it's about where you want to go, not how you get there.

Try putting that on an inspirational poster, I mutter to myself.

And then I'm up the stairs, the ladder is inside the plane, and the door bangs shut. I bang my knee in the gloom, and curse as I grab a handhold. I don't even make my seat before the aircraft lurches forward, accelerates and then thunders down the runway.

In what feels like little more than a few seconds, we are airborne. The plane banks a little and heads in the general direction of the sunset.

I am not a good flyer. But today it’s necessary.

A change of pace, out with the old and in with the new. A fresh start.

Destination, destination, destination.

And joy, it seems it time to talk again.

Ready? He asks me.

We’re both in skydiving gear, helmets, goggles, jumpsuits. However, I’m the only one with a parachute. I'm annoyed by his question, but I can’t see his eyes, which defuses my anger a bit.

Nope I reply.

Well, there's still time to change your mind.

I don’t even think about it.

My mind is made up. It's obstinate that way.

He tries another tack, determined to break my resolve, even though he knows it's pointless. He knows how I am.

Do you know what you're doing?

Of course I don't.

You mean you're totally unprepared?

We’ve been over this half a dozen times today already. I snap back at him,

Well, I can't be spontaneous and prepared, now can I?

This silences him, and I’m glad. He goes to his seat, and the vacuum of the minutes turn to hours. The engines drone gently. The light fades as we speed on some unknown course. And after what might be four hours, he comes over and sits with me again.

We’re almost there.

I nod my agreement, though I have no idea specifically where we are.

Last chance. Still time to head home. To prepare some more.

No thanks. I’m good to go.

You're sure? It's said that chance favours the prepared mind.

Yeah, but nobody changed the world when they were looking.

What?

I don't want to be ready. I want to react.

I can hear him thinking; I know him as well as he knows me. He's wondering if fear might work as a lever. To test his theory, he moves to the side of the plane and opens the door. The wind roars into the aircraft, blustering and buffetting us. The noise is impressive.

Outside, it is dark. There are no stars I can see.

Your counsellor would shit a brick if he knew about this.

Him and me both. But he’s not the one leaping into oblivion.

And suddenly he's in my face, shouting angrily above the chaotic howl of rushing air.

No. It's YOU. Alone. It is always you.

This does make me pause. He’s right.

But it is entirely not the point.

I'm not alone. I'm just not with anybody. I'm never alone.

He senses the lie, and glances behind me.

Get your head out of your arse boy, else it'll be a rough landing.

I laugh at this, and for the first time there is an edge of fear in me.

Last chance. It’s cold and dark out there. A. Long. Way. Down.

I don’t reply.

Tell me again... why are you doing this?

I don't know. Because I must. Because I'm compelled.

And finally he nods, satisfied. He knows me.

We shake hands unexpectedly.

There is a moment.

And I jump.


This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

IndigoWrath Season Three begins on Sunday 23 August

Alea Jacta Est

I'm looking at the calendar.

I have decided to take some time off next week.

I will be without a computer.

No Twitter. No blog. No security blanket!

It's going to be very strange indeed. Tonight is my 79th straight day of blogging. Good grief, that's a frightening thought. Four or five hours blogging every night, 2am bedtimes, totally out of touch with TV and movies and what few friends I have.

No wonder the laundry basket is full.

This blog has been a watershed in my life, a huge awakening for me.

And while its future is bright, I'm making some changes.

For a start, I'm going to draw a veil over the Twitter archive. It's been fun, but my particular style of patois is becoming a chore to write, and probably samey to read. My inner voice advises me that a wise writer knows to quits while he's ahead. My ego says otherwise, but we all know that those need a firm slap down occasionally.

And I'll not be blogging every day. This is a dangerous move, because I know myself. If I can do it tomorrow, I probably will. The force of will required to blog daily for eleven weeks has been considerable.

Don't get me wrong, I love it. And I'm very proud of my output, and grateful beyond measure to the folks who have inspired it, and who will hopefully continue to inspire it: Keith, Annie, Robbie, Cara, Rebecca and Harry. And to some new friends haven't made it as far as the archive: Kenny, Chloe and Devin.

But so I am not misunderstood, let me make a couple of points clear.

I'll still be on Twitter.

I'm sure our odd brand of humour will continue to fuel the blog.

I'll still be blogging right here.

I may rename the blog. Deconstructing Indigo is one possible title, and IndigoWrath: unTwittered is another. I'm leaning towards the former. It won't be a new blog or a new location; I've worked bloody hard to tempt you into reading my entries, and I'm not going to inconvenience you or piss you off any more than I need to.

It'll be the same style, the same subjects, the same insights. I'm not claiming for one moment that any of those are worthy of merit; I'm just trying to reassure you that it will be business as usual.

I may even open up about a few more things, and make the entries a bit more personal. I've been trying this of late, and the response has generally been positive. This freedom is a breath of fresh air for me, and I intend to take this opportunity.

Anyway, there it is. I've said it.

Alea Jacta Est as they might have once said in Rome. The die is cast.

Tomorrow's entry, my eightieth, will be the Season Two finale.

Season Three premieres on Sunday 23 August 2009.

And so to bed.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

A True Hiatus Nonsensica

For the uninitiated, pizza is the food of the gods.

It has driven men of faith to move mountains, inspired lovers into new heights of passion, and stirred the hearts of poets.

Better yet, it's good for you! As Homer famously recorded in his epic poem The Ilead:

Pizza contains all five food groups.

I was inspired to write about this by a throwaway comment I made in tonight's blog archive:

Forgive me father, for I have repeatedly and wantonly feasted on italian peasant food. With extra jalapenos.

Suddenly, I'm thrown back ten years, in the company of a young and erudite idifficult at our local pizzeria. We're fine looking young men; I'm 6'5" tall and a former varsity athlete, while idifficult is comfortably over 6' and has the body of a lean outdoorsman.

We're doing what we've always done best: talking nonsense. Work, technology, movies, gadgets and software. At the time, we did the same job. Yes, it's true; I'm a lapsed programmer. And I was going places, until I was seduced by the allure of documentation: the glory, the women, the beautiful stacks of paper.

I coulda been somebody, Marty. I coulda been a contender!

Our waitress, Miranda, comes over and makes small talk with us. She knows us all too well; we're there as often as not. We order a couple of large meaty pizzas with extra jalapeño chilli peppers. She smiles and heads off to the kitchen.

Our beers and cheesey garlic bread arrive soon after, and we continue talking while we eat. It's good, too, just as we like it; plenty of cheese which is slightly brown and crisp. And just as we're on the verge of putting the world to rights, the pizzas arrive.

The conversation stops. A true hiatus nonsensica.

We are struck dumb, both of us. No mean feat on any day.

We have to assume there is meat on the pizzas; we can't see any through the chilli peppers. Each of them looks like a football pitch. Green shredded jalapeños, wall to wall. Miranda smiles and says:

I remember how much you boys like your chilli peppers, so I got the kitchen to add lots of them. I hope you enjoy it.

She takes our stunned faces and silence to indicate awed appreciation. And we do appreciate it; it's a kind thought. And damn, they do look interesting. We mumble a thank you, and off she trots, her good deed for the day done.

It's kind of exciting. And a bit scary, too. We've eaten curries hot enough to melt an icecap, but this is different. These look dangerous.

We approach the food with caution but growing bravado. This turns to enthusiasm as we begin. Man, it's hot, but tasty, and the burn is good. We get through half a gallon of Pepsi Max. Each.

And no morsel escapes us, no crust is left uneaten.

Delighted with our foolish gluttony, we pay the bill tip Miranda handsomely, and head our separate ways.

I hear the following day that idifficult is poorly; he vanishes for several days. I am off work for a week. It is agony.

Ah, the foolish excesses of Youth.

Back in the present, I can honestly say that my digestion has never been the same since. I'd love to say we learned something from it, but I'd be lying.

It's said some people live and learn.
But some just live and live.

I bless Miranda for her kindness, if not her wisdom, wherever she is.

It was good pizza while it lasted.

---

The following offerings (shown in blue) are from my Twitter feed on Sunday 26 July 2009. I was going to write about Saturday 25 July, but I made two tweets all day, and both of them were grumpy. And who wants to read about that, eh?

idifficult: Good morning. I need a nice cup of tea to make me feel human. To actually make me human would require a genetics lab & a load of work.

Perhaps you should donate yourself to medical science? We'd still have Animal from the Muppets to remember you by.

While my red, hairy companion breathes heavily and considers this, I sneak in a quick mention of my previous blog. I only mention this now because I skipped Saturday's tweets, and normally do this just before bed. And I do so like to tempt you back to "classic" *ahem* blog entries.

They're only a couple of weeks old, but man the world moves fast these days.

The human mind is a fickle and fallible thing. Here is some proof. Needless to say IT'LL PROBABLY GET MESSY: LINK

At this point, someone sends me a quote from a "noted futurist" called Alvin Toffler that I toss into the mix. Toffler posited that:

The illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write but those who cannot learn, unlearn and relearn

While this is definitely true in my case, I have another perspective to offer. It's a rare outbreak of eloquence on my part. But as I already blogged it on a quiet day, you can discover/remember find it here:

To go with your rare steak and chips, may I recommend A CLASSIC ENGLISH MALAISE: LINK #yum #gourmet #england

We move onwards, but sadly not upwards.

idifficult: Using the correct ingredients my love potion is much improved. No more involentary winking or thunderous flatulence.

This isn't heading anywhere good. I attempt evasion. I suspect it will not work.

Forgive me father, for I have repeatedly and wantonly feasted on italian peasant food. With extra jalapenos.

But we've covered that already; I know it will have stirred similarly uncomfortable memories in idifficult.

idifficult: My original recipe love potion is still available for a small fee. Damn it, I can't give it away can I???

I have an object lesson for us both.

The last time I used it I wilted the flowers I gave the girl. Put a real crimp in my evening, I can tell you.

This would be funny if it wasn't true.

Goodnight all,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Occasional Gritting Of Teeth

Time is not my own today.

You know how it is. It's Sunday; family calls.

But before I headed off, buoyed by the success of Here's One I Made Earlier from earlier in the week, I wanted to share another piece of origami with you.

I made this one a while back, when I was actively involved in the origami society here in the UK. Times changed, and circumstances meant I couldn't continue, which was a shame. However, while I was on board, a call went out for pieces to go on display in the Japanese Embassy in London.

Yes, quite. The Japanese Embassy in London!

This sounded like an amazing opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime thing. So I put this one forward, and I was giddy to discover that it was accepted. So, for a week, this was included in a selection of the best origami that the UK had to offer. But in those terms, I am an insect. Some of the work displayed was inticate, beautiful, original. Mine merely needed patience and an element of graphic design.

Each cube is made from twelve interlocking pieces of paper, with three making one corner of the cube. Making two connecting corners was simple enough. Finishing a cube by adding the eighth corner was fiddly. Interconnecting two cubes meant assembling one while interlocking with another; gritting of teeth was occasionally required.

And finishing the loop? Ah heck, you don't wanna know.

I hope you like it. But believe me, the other work on show was better! I'm a hobbyist fiddler, those guys are artists.

But it's all relative, I suppose.

Whatever you can do artistically, creatively - be proud of it. There will always be someone who wishes they could do what you can do.

Enjoy your Sunday,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Inflating Followers By Hand

I spend a lot of time on Twitter, as you know.

I started this blog to archive my Twitter conversations, but it quickly became a Director's Cut commentary of my thoughts on everything, while remaining solidly apropos of nothing.

Both this blog and my often bizarre tweeting fun have helped me keep in touch with old friends. But it has also helped my make some new friends, something which, to be honest, I've never been very good at. I was a painfully shy kid, and would probably have been an equally shy adult had I not found an online voice.

It's said that the internet makes the world smaller. I disagree. The internet makes me aware that the world is vast, with a million cool and interesting places I've never been. But no matter how huge the world seems, I have found my place in it, and have good friends to share it with.

It's fun, it's thoughtful, and I've become a better person for it.

I am lucky.

This may lack humour and punch, but I want to say thank you! to the people who are part of my online world.

I wish you all lived closer.

But there will always be cool and interesting to visit, and good friends to be with when I get there.

Indigo

---

The following offerings (shown in blue) are from my Twitter feed on Friday 24 July 2009. The day starts strangely; there are few overnight tweets, and nobody seems to be about. I welcome that, though, as I have slept badly - an unusual thing for me - and I feel rather sluggish.

Damn, I've had seven hours sleep and I'm still a zombie. Think DAWN OF THE DEAD with indigestion and worse breath. *shuffles* #uuuuuhhhhh

One topic of note is that Twitter has had an overnight purge of spammers. This has many effects.

First, thousands of spam accounts have been deleted from Twitter; this is an entirely good thing.

Second, as a consequence of the first action, some broken accounts that have been inflating my follower numbers have been removed. This is also a good thing, as my follower number is now correct, which is important to me.

But third and finally, significant numbers of followers have been removed from people whose fragile online existence relies on them having large numbers of followers: spammers, news repeaters, linkers, marketers, and get-rich-quick saps who bought a "plan".

This is pretty much anyone who has little or no original content to add to the Twitterverse.

Pretty much anyone who populates Twitter to get something for nothing.

They are incandescent about it. This is not about losing customers; it is about losing the semblance of respectability that these spam followers gave them by inflating their follower count.

This just makes me laugh. I feel shallow and unkind enjoying the thought, but there it is. And there's fun to be had with it:

Twitter finally fixed my FOLLOWERS number. It's correct, but a quarter of what it was yesterday. Man, I feel unpopular! I NEED LOVE, PEOPLE!

And it's Friday, as good a day as any to spread some love.

#followfriday Fishoutofsea RebeccaHasWrote idifficult eolistpetite Gumley HarryHotstuff and, of course, all those wonderful spammers.

And on the subject of spam, it's nice to see that Britney's back waving that thing about.

If you spend any time on Twitter, you know the picture I'm talking about. You'd have thought the poor love would have been full by now. It's not actually Britney herself, you understand; just spammers using her likeness.

The sun is over the yard-arm before anyone strolls by to say hi. And good news; it's the return of my good friend, Gumley. He's been very quiet for the past week after a motorcycle accident.

Gumley: Okay sorry for the lack of tweets, here's the reason for my absence...

He then regales us with a sorry tale; he now knows why the accident happened. An incorrectly replaced cap during a service spread oil onto his rear wheel. Frankly, we're lucky to have him with us. The garage who did the service denies responsibility, of course, and he's paying for repairs out of his own pocket. They seem to overlook the fact that their mechanic muppet not doing his job properly almost caused the loss of a Gumley.

But Gumley himself is not downhearted. If you'd ever met him, you'd know he wouldn't be for a moment. He concludes:

Gumley: But with love from my beautiful girlfriend and comedy relief from my twitter friends I haven't stopped smiling

Gumley old boy, it's a pleasure to see you return. Sad to hear of the garage woes; bastards, all of them. Look forward to seeing the bike!

Actually, typing his name reminds me that I met his older self just the day before. I'm sure he'll be interested.

By the way, Gumley 2019 was in last night's blog. A strange affair it was too - HANGING FROM THE LANYARD: LINK

We return to the Island of Lost Followers when the sun rises over Idaho.

RebeccaHasWrote: Either people caught on to my secret mission here, or Twitter itself took the joy out of catching spammers from me & killed 170 off POOF

Rebecca really does enjoy blocking them. There's is always a perceptible - albeit distant - satisfied grunt on the aether whenever she weeds one from her border. I think she may even toss them in a chugging woodchipper.

Of course, there is always a second, less grounded perspective.

idifficult: Re: "killed 170 off" same here, although since I had only 100 follows I now have -70.

I feel obliged to report my own lower number, though I am happy about it.

Yeah, my 60 plummeted to 15. I'd cleared the spammers out, but there was one broken, invisible account screwing my count up.

After some light chat on the subject, we all agree it is a good thing and move on. But what's this? It seems our outspoken love of the Midwest's most famous fish have overwhelmed the target of our adoration.

Fishoutofsea: All the follow fridays were a bit overwhelming

I'm not surprised in the slightest. Ms. Fishy tweets are a constant source of inspiration, educaton and - of course - disbelief.

There's something about you we like, clearly. Days with you in are funner.

She grins at this evaluation and breaks into song.

Fishoutofsea: I need a hero / I'm holding out for a hero till the end of the night

This conjures a picture. Not a pretty one, but a picture nonetheless.

I can just see you singing this on karaoke. On roller skates.

Had idifficult been about at the time, he might have pitched in with a family karaoke tragic fail tale.

Fishoutofsea: That sounds like major fun!

The day is drawing to a close; it's well past midnight. The four or five hours it typically takes to write, polish and post a blog entry is not realistic. I decide that a brief taste of a tale to come, plus a killer photo, are all that is required. It still takes an hour.

My final act for the day is to offer up the mysteriously titled FEWER BOOKS THAN LASSIE: LINK #photos #morocco #marrakech

The bed issues a deep and contented sigh as I climb into it.

Or maybe that was me?

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Denial Of Dignity Attack

Last night, Twitter came under attack.

The news today has been sketchy, and somewhat incredible. Hackers targetted Twitter, Facebook, at least one blog host, and a few other social interaction websites. A coordinated Denial of Service attack, which while despicable and irritating, is undeniably impressive as a goal for the day.

TO DO LIST
- Laundry *tick*
- Wash the car *tick*
- Bring online world to its knees *tick*

Allegedly this is something to do with Russian loyalists silencing some separatist free-speaker, but like I said, I wonder about the credibility of the whole story.

Well, I did until I saw my masthead here on my blog. Did you see it when you arrived? This happened at the same time; clearly they're not fans of me, either.

Though I suppose it could have been King, that bloody lion who shares my house? It is his style.

Trust him to conceive a Denial of Dignity attack.

---

The following offerings (shown in blue) are from my Twitter feed on Thursday 23 July 2009. The day on Twitter starts badly. The holiday absence of idifficult is biting hard, but now there's an exodus.

eolistpetite: i'm off for a loooonnnnnnggggg weekend. pray for me - i seriously need to have some fun.

And with that, she is gone. And dammit, here comes another one!

Fishoutofsea: Adieu - Mmm bed I think. Insomniacs, I bid you goodnight.

Another one bites the dust.

Dammit, what is it with my power over women?

The wilderness is getting barer; idifficult and eolistpetite are missing, and Ms. Fish is asleep. Where's Gumley when you need him?

Nowhere, it seems. Hours that feel like days pass. Is this how Coleridge's Ancient Mariner felt?

Day after day, day after day / We stuck, nor breath nor motion
As idle as a painted ship / Upon a painted ocean
Water, water, every where / And all the boards did shrink
Water, water, every where / Nor any drop to drink

But good news. The jolly steamer Rebecca hoves into view, sailing out of the main port in Idaho*. I was going to say jolly sloop, but it sounded lewd. Anyway, it looks like I might finally have some company, if I can only keep her from running off with a fishing pole to a beautiful river someplace.

[* Yeah, yeah, I know.]

But she's sounding pretty restless straight off the bat.

RebeccaHasWrote: I didn't get any refugee offers worth ditchin the great state of Idaho for, but I am beyond sick of the heat here...

I'm crushed. I offered, truly I did. I repeat my last tweet on the subject, and add a sweetener. I hope it doesn't sound desperate; she deserves better.

You should visit the UK, the rain is lovely and warm in the summer. I'd also share my pizza with you?

RebeccaHasWrote: Rain? Lovely? Warm? in the same sentence with summer? I was drooling already, but then you had to throw in pizza?!! Airplane~

I chuckle, delighted that I'm not the only one swayed by such simple pleasures. Give me a movie, a pizza, diet coke and dessert and I'm happy. But you know what they say:

Give a man thirty bucks and a takeout menu and he'll be full for a few hours. Give him a credit card and he'll be full for life. And will need bigger trousers.

I continue my patriotic promotion.

I'm delighted to be a bad influence. We don't get much humidity, it's rarely over 90, and it does rain a lot. And there's ALWAYS pizza.

In fact, there's a huge meaty pizza in my fridge right now, and very saucy it is too. Gosh, I'll never finish it alone...

It was delicious, but I ate alone; my salesmanship needs work. The conversation picks up again later, on a peculiar subject: sexed-up advertising.

RebeccaHasWrote: Maybelline, you crossed the electric line~ Vibrating mascara wand? I can think of a few vibrating items one should have, but this? No thanks

It's a really silly advert. It's like a gold plated yardbroom; expensive and totally unnecessary.

And good grief, I don't even want to think about the uses of battery powered intimate massagers; I have to sleep at some point.

Luckily, I recall an equally daft and unnecessary advert from the world of cosmetics.

They're working the sex angles, it's true - Did you see the "Lash Stiletto" adverts?

No, this isn't one of my image concoctions; this is the real deal.

Buoyed by this silliness, we drift onto a shared passion: our blogs. Well, perhaps the feelings are not so passionate today?

RebeccaHasWrote: My Blog and I have taken on the persona of a married couple. It wants love and attention and I'm claiming a headache today ~

I have a similar love/hate relationship with mine. Glorious exhiliration whenever I write a corker, but it's an albatross about my neck much of the time.

Man, I'm really working the Ancient Mariner motif today.

Mine keeps stealing my evenings, and then blames me for letting it. I'll show it. I can stop anytime. Ok, tomorrow then.

But the sea is silent. I am alone again, though grateful for the brief company. There's nothing for it. As the sun sinks towards the horizon, I order pizza.

But just after it arrives, events take a weird turn.

I blog the strangeness of the evening and set it free. It's worth reading just for the photo.

Time travel. It was going to happen eventually - HANGING FROM THE LANYARD: LINK #phones #timetravel #photos #pizza #cameras

I'm beside myself. Literally.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

And Today's Word Is Arse

Today has been an odd day.

Despite posting my blog really entry early last night, I ended up hauling my sorry arse out of bed at 1am to do something that was nagging at me as I tried to sleep. It took an hour, and I'm really not sure it was a good idea.

Still, I'm a creature of impulse, and once I set my mind to something I tend to follow through. And I'd rather act and be wrong than do nothing. If I were a religious man, I like to think those actions will count in my favour on Judgement Day. They come from a good place, a kind thought, even if they are misguided and problematic. *looks unsure* That counts, right?

The end result of all this? 2am bedtime. Again. Arse.

So, after yet another short night's sleep, I arrive bleary-eyed at work at 8am. I am truly vacant of the joys of summer, oblivious to the beautiful day outside. I hit the kitchen with my good mates Dennis and Chris - fine fellas at any time of day - and fumble around making coffee. I'm poor company, and they comment on it in a what's up, big man? kind of way. I mumble something non-commital. And, the brew successfully on, I sit down and start spooning cereal in absent-mindedly.

It's hard work. Muesli often is, though this one is normally very nice.

This FRUIT & NUT recipe is packed with 50% fruit, NUTS & pumpkin seeds. RAW BRITISH wholegrain OATS & BARLEY are blended with CRISPY, TOASTED wheat flakes for a balanced cereal base, while WHOLE NUTS, pumpkin seeds & coconut add a CRUNCHY layer, ending in a juicy FINALE of SWEET Flame rasins & TROPICAL fruit.

That's from the box, with capitalisation and colours intact. You have to love marketing.

Anyway, while I'm eating, the nausea starts. Again, arse.

I should point out to those kind folk from abroad who patronise this blog that arse is the British equivalent of the American/global word ass. To us, an ass is a donkey-ish animal. And like the American word, it is a noun for your backside. Your posterior. Your sit-upon. Yer bum!* The lewd sexual uses are retained; a nice piece of... and the like.

[* sorry, that's another word for it that we use while others don't.]

But our word is better than than its transatlantic cousin in one key respect:

We can use it as a stand-alone expletive. When presented with bad news or an unexpected circumstance, we joyfully proclaim Arse! to express our annoyance and disbelief at the universe. You can get some real energy into it. Some bile. Repeating it with increasing annoyance is even better.

Oh, arse! Arse! ARSE!

Anyway, back to the nausea. It's not the muesli; I'm feeling hot and grumpy anyway, so maybe I'm coming down with something. Leaving my friends to tidy up - their offer, very kind - I abandon the cereal and take myself away to settle down. It doesn't help.

I retain my breakfast, but fail to get coffee. I head home a few minutes later, switch my phone off, put the room into blackout mode with three fans blasting and sleep dreamlessly for five hours. I wake up sometime after lunch, and potter about doing a few jobs. I work on an archive entry from Twitter, but my heart's not in it, the cast mostly absent, and my humour seems clumsier than usual; I'm really not sure it's working.

Perhaps today is not the day for wit. When it flows it's glorious. But when it doesn't, don't bother calling the plumber; it'll start again when it's good and ready. You can't fight it.

Anyway, the good news is that around four, Dennis drops by to see me. We had a date with a BluRay movie and a pizza. I'm feeling a whole lot better, so we settle into the Director's Cut of Troy. Three and a half hours of gorgous spectacle, with fine acting from an ageing, heavyweight cast from this side of the Atlantic; Peter O'Toole, Brendan Gleeson, Julian Glover, John Shrapnel and the superb Brian Cox.

Sean Bean and Orlando Bloom seem miscast and out of their depth with such talent around them. But do you know what? The main American contender, Brad Pitt, holds his own magnificently.

The man deserves more respect for his acting talent than he gets.

Anyone who can stand toe-to-toe with a scene-stealing scenery-chewer like Brian Cox deserves our attention.

The film is a pleasure. And once it's done, the pizza devoured, the soda drunk, Dennis heads home. It's still early, but I have a blog to write, and we can regale everyone with tales of our heroic hi-def moviewatching tomorrow. Job done.

And curiously, though telling this tale, the blog is already done.

There's still a few things I want to do before bed, of coure. Fun things I wanted to leave so they get my undivided attention.

It'll be worth it, but I see 2am beckoning. Again.

Arse.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Here's One I Made Earlier

I am determined to get to bed before 2am today.

Tomorrow. Tonight.

Dammit, you know what I mean.

So I'm going to keep it short and simply share some fun I've been having with paper.

I've been a fan of origami on and off since I was ten. Most of you will have folded a paper boat or a hat or a colour changer at some point, maybe even a bird? Well, I've been working around the more intricate edges of origami for a few years, and have recently folded a couple of cool models.

So, in the great British children's TV tradition, "here's one I made earlier".

This frog is folded from a single uncut square of - rather expensive - green abaca fibre paper. See the four toes on the front feet and the five on the back? This is made possible by a clever folding technique called box pleating, which was invented by a fella called Emmanuel Mooser back in the late sixties.

The frog was a bit trickier than the "traditional" one you may have seen, where you inflate the frog by blowing up its backside? Or maybe that was just my childhood? The diagrams for this particular design has 101 steps, including a lot of exasperating ones that say things like "do the last five tricky steps again on the other side of the model, you schmuck." It took me around three hours to fold?

I should mention that this model is called Tree Frog, and was designed by Dr. Robert J. Lang. Folding instructions are in his awesome book Origami Design Secrets - Mathematical Methods for an Ancient Art.

Now then, the next model was much harder!

This beetle is based on a Kabuto Mushi, a Japanese armoured beetle. Yes, an exotic beast, with its top horns and branched bottom protruberances. This whole model - again folded from an uncut square of abaca fibre paper - is a triumph of box pleating, and frankly was a nightmare. It only has a few more steps then the frog, but it was many times more challenging and time consuming.

I think it took five or six hours to fold, including breaks for coffee, chocolate and a lot of frustrated ranting.

This was also designed by Dr. Lang. The design is called Samurai Helmet Beetle, and comes from his equally awesome book Origami Insects II. For those of you who want to be amazed, I would strongly recommend his LangOrigami website. Look under Art on the main page and then dip into the categories.

That's pretty much it for tonight.

I have a few more pictures and a tale or two to share, but I'll save that for another day. When I'm tired!

Thanks for your indulgence,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Dads Dancing In Public

Getting old is a strange thing.

I came across the following video in the noble soccer blog of fellow tweeter, HarryHotstuff. Harry was kind enough to link to me from there, and while I was checking his gaff out, I noticed this little beauty.


This may ring no bells with you. If you're under 30, it almost certainly won't. But folks who are my age will remember Van Halen's massive hit Jump from 1984, and the band's larger than life front-man, "Diamond" Dave Lee Roth. My namesake was a dynamo, a consumate performer, he had a belter of a voice, and pouted for the camera like a glorious, sexed up, blonde orang utan.

He was a true legend. But don't take my word for it.


Times have changed. Still slim, still a good looking fella, but not the man he was in 1984. Still, that's no grounds for criticism; who among us is?

Anyway, I liked the new arrangement of the song when I first heard it. I'm partial to a bit of bluegrass every now and then*.

[* A surprise gig in a restaurant by The Mighty Crows in Point Reyes Station in California last summer was awesome. Just ask eolistpetite]

But the more I watch it, the less sure I am. The musicians are terrific. But Mr. Roth?

Well, my feelings are mixed. I take my hat off to the guy for a continuing career. And maybe this clip shows a man who's still enjoying making music, and who still wants to entertain us.

But it's not the way I want to remember him.

Perhaps this a shrewd new career direction? A calculated glimpse of a legend ahead of a nostalgic reunion tour? A cunning retirement plan to pay the taxman and buy another yacht? Or maaaaybe just an old rocker being a tiny bit embarrassing in public.

Like your dad dancing at a party when your friends are there.

Forgive them father, for they know not what they do.

Please, someone stop me dancing at the party.

And good luck to Mr. Roth.

Indigo

---

The following snippets (shown in blue) are from my Twitter feed on Wednesday 22 July 2009. I'm almost two weeks adrift with the archiving and commentary, but I'm not worried; I'd not know what to do with myself if I caught up.

The day on Twitter starts with my favourite early morning matey, the midwestern aquanaut, Fishoutofsea. She's in striking form; not so much as a syllable of nonsense out of place.

Fishoutofsea: I'm not mad. And I'll tell you why I'm mad. It's because I'm mad.

See what I mean? I go all Spock-in-Star Trek IV on her. Yes, the one with the whales. Which actually, though unintentional, is appropriate.

I accept that as an axiom.

Unphased by my erudite words, she continues:

Fishoutofsea: fishoutofsea is an idiot.

Ouch, it's a little earlier for recursion. The bitch!

I've strayed into these kinds of conversations before. I try and escape quickly using a blatant tweet of the previous night's blog:

Don't be put off! There's still plenty of the RHUBARB & ROQUEFORT PIE: LINK #yum #california

The photos are awesome. But no, it doesn't help, dammit.

Fishoutofsea: The best thing to do in this situation is listen to songs about cannibalism

Again, cannibal references. The third time this week. And again, I'm at a loss. Still, the carnival rolls onwards.

Fishoutofsea: I can't wait for winter...

Finally, familiar ground, and a subject dear to my heart.

Yep, I'm a winter wonder-lad.

eolistpetite: i'm not sure you really know what winter is. it gets to that crazed "Here's Johnny!" point here.

We have it easy, yes =)

It's true; England gets very little snow by comparison to Michigan.

In fact, the North Pole gets very little snow compared to Michigan.

eolistpetite: i'd rather have it easy too. i'd settle for mild temperatures year round with snow that covers us with white in december.

This fires my imagination. I love a heavy snowfall, even if my childhood memories of them are sketchy. But as the flakes fall behind our eyes, I am distracted by an imminent milestone.

Good grief, my blog counter is at 991! Just a few more to hit the big one zero zero zero!

eolistpetite: your counter is at 991!?! WOOT!! i promise those aren't all me. course they could be idifficult

Like a barker who has escaped at Fishoutofsea's carnival, I drum up some business to hit the four figures. I can't tell you how giddy it makes me. A thousand? Wow. Cool.

Good grief, 994! Wanna be the one to tip me over the thousand? Check out the gorgeous RHUBARB & ROQUEFORT PIE: LINK

The slumbering Neighbour of the Beast awakens and pitches in.

idifficult: eolistpetite was right, each hit on your blog is one of my personalities

goddamn, it'd be easier just to phone you. Oooooh, 999!

I can't help it - I slip into parody. I've been watching the Original Series of Star Trek on BluRay of late, and Mr. Shatner's scenery chewing antics have been an inspiration.

(Kirk voice) Just one. More. Visitor.... I'm al-MOST. At 1000!

I pause, too excited to speak. Still, someone else does. Good gravy, have they no sense of drama?!

eolistpetite: did ya make it?!? did ya did ya did ya??

Yes, just broke 1000 unique visits to the blog! Pageloads is three times that!

There is much back slapping and other cameraderies. My goodness, I feel giddy.

But as I promised a few days ago, I shall now stop talking about my excitement at my rising blog statistics.

Unless it gets really exciting, of course.

Still buzzing, the final gig for the day is a shout for a new blog entry. It contains some photos of the kid people who keep my Twitter antics and my blog afloat.

In celebration of 1000 visitors to the blog, I present, with love to all concerned, HEROIC DOSES OF COFFEE: LINK #woohoo

There's even an easter egg gag, for those who care to find it

Nobody did. I hope they looked, nonetheless. Of course they did.

*Indigo retires gratefully to bed*

GOODNIGHT CALIFORNIA!

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Maybe Sometime Soon

Tonight's blog entry is a tale of obsession.

Back in the late seventies, when I was maybe ten years old, I was tormented by this advert for the Micronauts toy range:

I adored the Micronauts toys, and owned them all.

Well, almost all.

I had a Time Traveler, a Biotron and a Microtron and many of the other actions figures and vehicles in the original manufacturing run.

But I could never buy an Acroyear.

As a healthy lad with "completist" tendencies, this drove me crazy. Man, I wanted that damned thing. Real bad. It was way cooler than all the others. It had wings, huge feet with wheels, and I knew from another photo that it even came with a shiny sword!

It probably flew, for heaven's sake!

I live in the UK as you know, and back then there were no big toy stores like Toys'R'Us. Just small highstreet shops. It really wasn't a shopper's paradise. But nevertheless, I set my mind to the task of getting an Acroyear.

I dragged my parents into every toyshop I saw for over a year, searching for this damned figure. I asked shopkeepers about it. They shrugged and said Maybe sometime soon. And I kept on looking.

Months passed, and I became increasingly desperate. I begged store owners to find out how to get me one now. I couldn't wait any longer! Had I not been spending someone else's money, I would have promised them a tenfold increase in price just to put one of these beautiful, elusive, and unbelievably cool toys in my hand.

I even wrote to the company in the States, asking why I couldn't buy one. They never replied.

And eventually, beaten, I moved on.

Thirty years passed. I became a man.

And when I became a man, I put away childish things.

Then an odd thing happened a few weeks ago. I saw an Acroyear for sale on eBay. I smiled and basked in the glow on nostalgia for a moment. My, how I'd longed for one of those when I was a kid. Yes sir, I surely did. Thirty years ago. Thirty. Years. Man, that had bugged me at the time. I'd tried so hard. The very thought of owning one had excited me for months, and then it made me miserable for twice as long when I couldn't get one. Why had it been so hard?

Damn, I had wanted one.

Damn, I still wanted one.

Involuntarily, in the present, my eye twitched.

I placed a bid, then another and another. For two days I watched and bid on the bloody thing, the price slowly creeping up. I eventually won, but had to cough up close to fifty bucks to pay for it and have the thing shipped to me from the States. Had I bought an unopened "NRFB" (Never Remove From Box) figure from eBay, it would cost me two or three times that amount.

There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Anyway, my Acroyear figure arrived today. The figure was sold as used, with no box. It looks played with and well loved; it probably gave some ten year old kid hours of enjoyment back in the late seventies.

And it's complete. Just as I imagined. Wings, wheels, even the shiny sword. Here it is:

It's just as well I didn't spring for the unopened original; it would have been a waste. I wouldn't have been able to leave it in the box.

I wanted to hold my Acroyear, just like I never did as a kid.

And hold it I did.

For fans of Charles Foster Kane, this is my Rosebud.

This little man now sits on my window sill at work, next to the big man who owns it. If anyone asks, and I hope they do, I'll tell them the story I'm telling you. They'll see me smile and think I'm weird, no doubt. A forty year old playing with toys.

You have to be obsessive to understand obsession, and the strange things it makes us do.

And now, of course, the punchline. While I was searching for pictures of the original advert at the top of this entry, I found out two things from a Micronauts fan site.

Firstly, the UK distributors never sold it. They decided that the range was too big, and chose not to bother with the Acroyear figure in this country. No store in the UK ever had it on sale. I spent so much time and effort looking and asking and begging, and was never told that one key fact by anyone selling the toys.

Pardon me for a moment while I curse my youthful obsessiveness.

And the shopkeepers. Bastards.

Secondly, I discovered the following photo:

Yes, the original Acroyear figure came in not just one colour, but three. Gold, pink and blue.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

And, involuntarily, my eye twitched.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

All Bets Are Off

As I have no doubt mentioned before, I have an interesting job when I'm not here.

I design things, I write about them and do illustrations, I get to hang out with some fun folk, and I drink a lot of coffee. I love all this, which is just as well. As I've often observed:

If you hate your job, Monday to Friday is a pretty long time.

So, it doesn't sound bad, right?

Well, it's not all beer and skittles.

My employer is an American corporation, so there's lots of red tape and endless hoops to jump through. And there's way too many meetings these days. And don't even get me started about the mandatory training courses on subjects that bear no relevance to anything I do. Or how much I despise the health and safety newsletters brimming with well-intentioned nannying. Or the daily heaps of spam mail from inside the company.

Or the pervasive lack of common sense about more or less anything.

It's like Douglas Adams' Vogon guard said in The Hitch-Hikers Guide To The Galaxy:

Well, the hours are good. But now you come to mention it, most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy.

You know, I think I need a new job.

---

The following offerings (shown in blue) are from my Twitter feed on Tuesday 21 July 2009. As I log into Twitter, a friend is just leaving.

Fishoutofsea: Bed.

My power over women is truly awesome. Shame, we've not caught up much of late.

I wander off in search of coffee, cursing my "gifts". As I sip a delightfully over-sugared über-spresso*, I run back over the tweets from the night before. Those who know me will know how forgetful I am. Were I a boffin, this would be elevated to the more charming "absent minded".

But no such luck. Again, I curse my talents.

[* Oooh, I claim that creation as my own; Über-Spresso Coffee, (c) Indigo Roth 2009]

One significant pre-sleep tweet I notice is from eolistpetite, pondering if she should take a break from the Internet for a month. At the time, we all wailed our objection - we love her and would miss her terribly - and this morning the vacationing idifficult reinforces this position.

idifficult: A month without Internet? I'm missing my online friends after 10 days!

I provide backup, still quite rattled by the thought.

*looks about in the wilderness* It's just not the same without you. Losing eolistpetite as well would be unbearable.

But then, good news:

eolistpetite: i'm weak. i'd never last. course the internet server took me seriously and has been hosting periodic shutdowns...

As befits the actions of a man and his evil twin, myself and idifficult shout our "outage outrage" in Español simultaneously.

Bastardos!

eolistpetite: spoken correctly. internet servers are definitely male. if they weren't they'd not screw with me.

As we try to untangle the double negative and assess the statement, there is a welcome retweet of my blog from the day before.

eolistpetite: IndigoWrath's IN NOMINE PINGU: LINK - is that the pope or is it really a pelican in penguin's clothing?

In years to come, when analysts pick apart my eventual downfall into wine, women and architectural follies, they will look back on IN NOMINE PINGU as a landmark statement. They will hopefully use words like zeitgeist, verwirrung and other pretentious imports from German.

They will nod sagely as say, there was a man on top of his game.

And hopefully they will laugh.

You can never tell with intellectuals.

Still, back in the present, there is another philosophical poser to be dealt with.

eolistpetite: YABBA DABBA DOOOOOOOO.... sorry. i was looking at my feet. think my dad was really Fred Flintstone. also explains my gathering of rocks.

Damn, does that mean your mum was Wilma Flintstone, who is in all probability the sexiest woman who has ever lived?

eolistpetite: Wilma!?! my mother?!?!? =O !! that'd be the reason i'm so damn sexy then. YABBA DABBA DOO!!!!!!!!!

For those of you who didn't grown up in the United Kingdom, this probably requires some explanation. Red Dwarf is a British comedy show, an everyday tale of a deep-space mining vessel. Her crew? The last man alive; a hologram of his pedantic dead bunkmate; a creature that evolved from the Ship's cat; a smartass humanoid service android; and a senile computer.

Here's some fun from the show's third season:


Jollied by this, the day moves on happily. There's more despatches from Idaho, though Rebecca's news is uncomfortable.

RebeccaHasWrote: Heat stroke sufferer seeking: place of refuge from triple digit Idaho temperatures. Will cook or clean in exchange for mercy 70`ish & under

It's cool enough here. Am I too late? Did I get beaten in the rush?

Silence indicates that yes, I probably was. *sigh* Dammit, missed again, two days running. I find solace in an enormous pizza.

Man, I really didn't need that pizza. I just WANTED it. But hell, why not. I'm only young once. Hey, stop giggling at the back.

They are; I can hear them. But then, suddenly - horribly - an older and wiser Misery returns. I've not missed her.

Back spasm! BACK SPASM! OOOWWW!! I may need help getting to bed; I'm an equal opportunity patient, but your own uniform may be advantageous.

All bets are off. It's really nasty, the first one in ages. Thankfully, the blog has been put to bed. Getting from the chair to my bed (all of two yards) may be more troublesome.

It's late. Anyone still hungry? You might enjoy the oddly nostalgic RHUBARB & ROQUEFORT PIE: LINK #definitely #not #quiche

And of course, after I turn in, and unable to read it...

eolistpetite: damn. missed your cry for help. course i don't have a uniform...

There is only one possible response, dusted off the following morning for a final use.

BASTARDOS!

Thanks for tuning in. As Dave Allen always used to say,

May your god go with you.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009