Just Like The Real Thing

The engine is ticking over gently as my best friend struggles his way into the passenger seat of my car. I’m stopped at a red light, he’ll need to get a move on.

Hey mate, thanks for picking me up! he offers as he settles himself noisily into his seat.

Hey man, how’s it going? I reply as I reach across him to pull the door closed. The light changes to green and I quickly grab his seat belt and secure him into place. Normally I’d let him do this himself, but this evening he seems to be secured entirely inside a large sack. A six foot long, hessian sack to be precise, gathered at the top and secured with padlocks.

I have known iDifficult since we started working together twenty years ago; these things happen.

I’m cool with it, and figure he’ll tell me later.

Fancy listening to anything? I ask as we pull away from the lights, breaking the ice.

Sure, anything, I don’t mind, he replies absently, fidgeting with something inside the sack. There is clinking.

I was just listening to an audio book, I tell him, some old ghost stories by M. R. James. The next one is Whistle And I’ll Come To You, My Lad. They did it on TV a few years back?

Cool, why not. I didn’t know you liked audio books! he says, surprised. I’ve probably not mentioned it, as it’s a relatively new hobby. He adds absently, I tried one of the abridged ones a while back, but… and leaves the sentence hanging. I think he shrugs dismissively inside the sack.

I’m not a fan of the short versions either, I agree, but I’ve been listening to unabridged ones. Much better, having the entire text. Sometimes they do multi-voice recordings too, more like a spoken play. The Illuminatus trilogy was like that.

Nice, he grunts, distracted. Then suddenly, Dammit, almost had it!

Yeah. I do a lot of driving every week, and I have bad reading habits these days. I love buying books, and love reading them, but I fall asleep soon as I pick one up. Time of day doesn’t matter. Page one, fresh as a daisy. Page two, heavy eyelids. Page three, dreamland. I haven’t read much in years.

But you have tons of books at your new place!

Yes, I counted them up one day and found I have twenty six new-ish books on my shelf, of which I’d read two. I take a deep breath, disappointed at the memory. I was about to buy yet more books I fancied, and decided that audio books might make more sense.

I do all my reading on the train, he says, through clenched teeth. I imagine he has a lockpick between his lips. It passes the time nicely. And it’s a shame, you used to read all the time. I've borrowed loads off you over the years.

Yeah, true. Did little else as a kid. Comics, Asterix books, lightweight science fiction. Happy times. So, you carry a paperback in your pocket when you travel?

He shifts in his seat, bringing his feet up. His breathing and chat become more laboured, hoarse almost.

Sometimes, he says. I read an old Dan Brown last month, and one of Kathy Reich’s new ones. But I’ve also read a few as e-Books on my organiser and on the iPod. Methuselah’s Virus by Raspal Chima most recently. Can you hold this for a moment?

Something that looks like a finger points outwards from the sack. I reach sideways, one hand on the wheel, to grasp it through the rough material. It’s soft, like PlayDoh. I continue, unphased.

You like reading electronically? I’ve never really thought about it. It wouldn’t help me, as I only find time and focus while I’m driving. I picture the attempt. Couldn't really balance a Kindle on the steering wheel.

Yeah, it’s ok. Though I don’t read as much as I used to. I tend to listen to music these days. Have you read any real books of late?

I consider this for a moment. I did read something recently.

Well, a friend sent me a paperback copy of Crooked Little Vein by Warren Ellis as a present. I somehow sat and devoured it in a single session. Not done that since I was ten. I ponder this surprising fact for a moment and add, Must have been a damned good book, all things considered.

You bought a real old book though, didn’t you? he asks, replacing his feet on the floor with a sigh of relief.

Well, I have a first edition of The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers from 1895, but I’ve not read that for a couple of years. Great book, mind.


So everything else you’ve read lately has been…? he asks, letting me fill the void as he renews his escape efforts.

Yeah, audio books. I’ve listened to all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels, fourteen of the buggers. Then the Illuminatus trilogy I mentioned earlier, and almost all of these M. R. James. Plus the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. Oh, and Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials.

All unabridged? You do way too much driving matey. Still, better to be enjoying a book than not, however you do it. Then, seconds later, a triumphant, AHA! GOT IT!

Slowly, elegantly, the seat belt slides back up into its holder.

Bugger, he mutters. I laugh as I slow the car to a stop; we’ve known each other for years, its cool. He manages a chuckle, too. I replace the seatbelt, and set off again.

Anyway, that’s over twenty books more than I read in the previous five years. And I’m surprised how well they work as audio. It’s nice to be finally enjoying books again. I glance sideways at him, grinning to myself. I enjoy the escapism.

He doesn’t reply. His head is down, as if he is concentrating intently on a piece of the puzzle. Silence falls over the car, apart from an occasional squeaking of a badly oiled lock and the creak of rope. I notice we’re almost in the town centre.

So, how’s it going in there? I ask, my curiosity finally getting the better of me.

Hmm? Yeah, sorry about this. The night school Escapology class started late. Then the teacher had to run. I figured I’d sort something, knew you’d get me home. But I’ve dropped the lockpick and forgot to tense my muscles to bulk up when he Tied. These. Knots.

I slow the car at the next set of lights. Straight on to town, left to take him back home.

So, we still going for pizza?

Deep inside the bag, he sighs. I hear the terminal, defeated click on a stop watch.

You got any bolt cutters?


Indigo

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

Sunday In My City

My blog buddy Claudya over at Unknown Mami does a cool and evocative entry every Sunday. In it she posts photos of San Francisco and the Bay Area, under the title of Sundays In My City.

I've been to San Francisco twice at very different times in my life, and I always enjoy being reminded of what an amazing place it is.

So, as my hat tip to Ms. Unknown, here is Sunday in my city. That's Cambridge, England. Yes, that one. Actually, this is an appropriate time to celebrate the town; the University is 800 years old this year. Just think about that. Eight. Hundred. Years.

I'll say no more. Click on the pictures for larger versions. I may even remember to put floaty captions on them?











Indigo

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

A Quiet Knock At The Door

Silence is a peculiar thing.

I'm very fond of it, generally speaking. Reading a book by the fire with a cup of tea? Silence is wonderful. Trying to concentrate over a tax return? Silence is essential. Sunny day in the garden with a beer? Silence is the cherry on the cake, if damned near impossible to experience.

But there is another side to Silence. I'll even give it a capital letter to give it some presence. Fans of my blog from way back will tell you that I do that a lot with concepts, especially my emotions. For example, from my very first blog entry back in May:

Sleep eludes me. Mischief is dancing round the bed. Though it may be Misery; the light is bad.

Anyway, Silence. Of all the answers you can receive for your actions, Silence is the most confounding. It can mean so many different things, despite being - by definition - nothing. These things can be good, bad, and indifferent. But it's hard to be sure; it's left entirely up to your mental outlook and interpretation.

Of course, the sane, balanced mind would not waste time over-analysing it.

Which is why I bring it up.

Timewarp back a while...

I'm sitting at my desk in a comfy chair, pondering my next blog entry. My previous entry took quite some time to write, and I'm proud of it. But no comments. Nada. Frustrating, but I'm not taking it to heart, I'm not dwelling on it. As I've said before, I write for me; if other folk like what I write, great. If not, so be it.

But then there's an urgent, quiet little knock at the door. As I turn, Paranoia comes in uninvited. He's a quiet, thin, slightly fey young man, and I've not seen him in a while. He doesn't look well. He offers his opening gambit:

They didn't like it much, you know.
Excuse me? *
Your blog entry. They didn't like it.
What makes you say that?
Well, isn't it obvious? They left no comments.
Yeah, but it's not compulsory!
Well yes, but when people like something, generally they say something, don't you think?
Not necessarily. Besides, I'm not sure if anyone even read it.
Well, your stats look good for today.
Yeah, but...
I wonder why they didn't like it? It took you ages.
Yeah, and I like it a lot, but that doesn't mean they will.
You're right. There's no reason to think they'd think it was funny.
What do you mean?
Well, your sense of humour is a bit unconventional.
What?
Well, most bloggers write about things that happen to them.
Yeeeeees. And?
Well, you just make things up!
Not all the time!
I suppose you do have a pretty uneventful life...
SHUT UP!
Most folk probably save their comments for the best blogs.
Hoo boy. Would you consider hush money?
It was way too long and complicated, in any case.
Look, you're gonna have to leave.
People don't like to leave negative comments. It's bad etiquette.
That's crap! Now, get out! I'm not kidding!
Yessir, that Silence is a blessing.
I'll get the door, walk this way.
Most of them probably clicked away before reaching the end.
GET OUT!
Left. Them. Cold.

And so on.

[* Saying Excuse me? is a new habit. English people don't say it, except when we bump into people. When we don't understand or are confused, we say I'm sorry? or Pardon? or Yer wot? This new thing is acquired from American TV shows.]

Anyway, I throw Paranoia out and slam the door. I calm down. I quickly rattle a new entry blog off, and add a nice homebrew picture. Yes, I like it, and within minutes the comments start to arrive. Nice. But odd. It does make me wonder if there really is something wrong with the earlier entry? I put those thoughts aside and think no more about it. Until...

Timewarp to this morning

I'm catching up on the overnight blogs. Some of them make me laugh, some make me think. I post quite a few comments as I go, all good humoured.

I then read an entry from one of my favourite bloggers. It stops me dead. It's a difficult memory, a menacing and violent one, with even more dangerous overtones. A tale of grace under fire, of resolve, determination, heroism, and escape.

I want to leave a comment, to high five my friend and say something meaningful. But after staring at the comment box for ten minutes and trying a few sentences on for size, I can't find the words. I'm overwhelmed by the feelings the entry has dug up. The words I do find sound trite or weak or patronising or some other damned thing.

And so I abandon my effort and move on.

I leave no comment.

It's no big deal, there's a perfectly good reason.

Coffee and breakfast don't wash this event from my mind. I left no comment. I keep reminding myself that it's no big deal. But it nags at me nonetheless. Reading that post was hard, but writing it must have been downright scary. And eventually, I recall my conversation with Paranoia from a few days earlier.

Yessir, that Silence is a blessing.

I leave my breakfast things unwashed and head back to the computer. I return to my friend's blog, access the comment page, and start writing. It's not elegant, it's not well written, but it's from the heart. I leave the comment and feel I've done something decent with my day.

And 3-2-1 you're back in the room!

There's no intended moral to this story, as the two halves are different sides of the same coin. As Paul Simon almost once said, there must be fifty ways to not leave comments, the best of which is because I choose not to. Enough said.

But I also realise that it's hard to read much that is useful into Silence. It is what it is. Move along there, nothing to see! Literally.

I've also learned, if a lesson was needed, that I am occasionally loopy.

The house is quiet tonight. Doubt keeps me company most evenings, but she's out with Angst; they "need to catch up".

Damn, there goes next week.

Indigo

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

Going To That Quiet Place

There are days when the world gets the better of me.

Those who know me quite well will realise that I'm understating that a touch. But let's just say that I can get a bit cross.

Today is such a day. The reasons aren't terribly important, being small and unimportant individually. However, there are so many of the damned things that their interactions and consequences are getting me down.

So I let my mind wander to a quiet, peaceful place. For me, that's Eungella National Park in Queensland, Australia.

Australia? you might say, That's a very long way for a Brit fella to let his mind wander, isn't it?

Yep. But damn, it's quiet up here. I can see a long, long way. The mountains in the far, deep left of the background are twelve or thirteen miles away, and the towns like Finch Hatton and Owens Creeks are too small to see. The photo really doesn't do it justice.

I'm told that some nutters like to hang-glide from more or less where I'm standing; I hope they're careful to avoid the tree.

But man, imagine the freedom.

I'm calmer already.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009
Photo of Eungella National Park copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009

Catching Passes In Traffic

Transcript of Court Proceedings
The State vs Indigo Roth
Sunday 20 September 2009

All rise, His Honour George Jeffreys presiding.

Please be seated. Bring in the defendant.

(Indigo Roth is brought in)

Ah, Mr. Roth, we’ve been expecting you.

(Roth acknowledges a quiet ripple of applause from the gallery)

Good morning, judge.

Yes, yes, that’s quite enough of that. Who is prosecuting?

(Prosecution rises)

Arnold Phalanx, Your Honour, of Attorneys Tortoiseshell, Phalanx and Jefferquat.

Well, get on with it, Mr. Phalanx. What are the charges?

(The Prosecutor turns to Roth)

Mr. Roth, you are charged with wilfully misleading readers of your blog about its ongoing humorous content, and of posting unexpectedly serious entries with strong literary tendencies.

Literary? Really? Cool.

(The Judge eyeballs Roth)

Mr. Roth, these are serious charges. How do you plead?

Um… Fascinated?

Guilty or Not Guilty, Mr. Roth!

Oh, Not Guilty, obviously. I have to hear the case for the prosecution.

I am not here to boost your ego, Mr. Roth.

This is a blog entry Mr. Phalanx. Some might disagree.

(The judge shifts in his seat irritably)

Who is representing you, Mr. Roth?

(Roth rises)

Oh, I’ll represent myself, Your Honour.

(The Presecutor cuts in, smugly)

You are aware, are you not, that a man who represents himself has a fool for a client?

Yes, but my client keeps me on retainer.

(Judge Jeffreys raises his eyebrows)

Really? Does he pay well?

He’s very generous, Your Honour, despite his limited means.

Your Honour, I object! We are not calling any character witnesses!

Yes, sustained! Mr. Phalanx, please continue.

Thank you, Your Honour. Today, I intend to demonstrate the defendant’s comedic inclinations in his early days of blogging, and then document his slow and deliberate slide into more traditional prose.

(Turns to Roth)

Mr. Roth, how did your blog start?

Well, I was spending a lot of time on Twitter writing funny stuff with friends. A lot of it was good, and I wanted to keep it. So, seeing there was no decent way to archive from Twitter, I copied our conversations daily into a blog entry.

You simply copied it over?

Oh, it was a lot of painful cutting and pasting, and I had to add a lot of commentary to it to give it some context and polish up the jokes a bit, but yes.

And it was from this early work that humorous entries such as Rubbing Shoulders With Giants, Catching Bees With Tweezers and Local Lion Unlocks Wardrobe emerged?

(Roth leans over)

Ooh, are those hyper-linked blog entry titles? Can I click one?

I’m asking the questions, Mr. Roth. Were you or were you not the author of these amusing and light-hearted little dialogues and vignettes?

Yes, I wrote those entries.

And did you then venture into piecemeal spy stories under your masterspy alter-ego?

Alter-ego?

Yes, Mr. Roth, your licenced-to-kill alter-ego, Roth. Indigo Roth.

The name is the same. How is it an alter-ego?

Are you saying that these spy stories are true, Mr. Roth?

I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Your Honour.

(the Prosecution looks at Roth levelly)

Why did you write these tales Mr. Roth?

(Roth relaxes back into his chair)

They were an interesting challenge, as was Twitter generally. Constructing a coherent statement in 140 characters requires some thought. Writing something funny is trickier. And crafting something that is coherent, funny and part of a larger story is downright difficult. I even published entire tales as mission logs in Spy Another Day and Dr. Wang to prove the point. It also helped folk to enjoy the story if they weren’t able to follow the whole thing on Twitter.

Objection! The witness is hyper-linking.

Sustained. Mr. Roth, watch your step.

(The Prosecution continues, smiling)

Were these mission logs popular entries, Mr. Roth?

Not as popular as I’d hoped. But it’s always hard to guess what will go down well. My favourites rarely cause a ripple.

Quite so, Mr, Roth, and I put it to you that, disheartened by this, you threw all your creative energies into your least funny entry yet, Walkabout In Sight Of Home. I call our first witness, Ms. Jenna Hearthome.

(a pleasant thirty-something American woman takes the stand)

Ms. Hearthome, can you describe Walkabout In Sight Of Home to us in your own words?

It was a huge surprise. I quite liked Mr. Roth’s early, funny entries, and so I opened this one with interest. Well, it starts like it's just an amusing dream, but it quickly turns into an emotional tour-de-force where Mr. Roth’s soul is bared under the scrutiny of three allegorical characters, exposing his deepest fears. And then it surprises again by closing with an upbeat message of hope. I haven’t cried so much in ages. Thank you Indigo, please write another, I love your name!

(Prosecution is visibly annoyed)

Thank you, Ms. Hearthome, no further questions.

(Embarrassed, he turns to Roth)

So, Mr. Roth, that doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs, does it?

It wasn’t. But sometimes I have to write an entry to get it out of my system. The response from readers was quite positive, too, though I was back to my regular archiving the following day. Nobody seemed to mind the diversion.

That remains to be seen, Mr, Roth. And now I want to call to the stand a large, black-and-white member of the weasel family.

Mr. Phalanx, you are well aware that you are not allowed to badger the witness.

(Roth laughs at his favourite joke of the day)

Very well. So, Mr. Roth, you began an unrivalled run of humorous entries, including Talking Dirty In Korean, I Can't See The Speakers and the award-winning In Nomine Pingu.

(Roth laughs again, and there’s chuckling from the gallery)

Yep, I quite enjoyed that last one. Though it wasn’t award winning.

I never said it was, Mr, Roth.

No? Oh, then I probably edited that into the transcript. And by the way, I did sprinkle in some semi-serious stuff like Maybe Sometime Soon and Hanging From The Lanyard. Though nobody understood the latter. It was an experiment that I loved, nonetheless.

(Irritated, Phalanx shuffles his papers)

Yes, well. Which brings us to the key event in this sad tale, your blog entry Alea Jacta Est, in which you announce your absence, a holiday, and declare a number of changes that will be in place on your return. That is, less frequent blogging, and no more Twitter archive.

Yes, I had no choice. I was exhausted from eighty consecutive days of blogging. Something had to give.

All in good time, Mr. Roth. I call my final witness, Chester T. Truant.

(a pleasant, portly, slightly bewildered-looking man takes the stand)

Mr Truant, can you describe your feelings for Mr. Roth’s blog?

Yessir. Well, like the previous lady, I rather enjoyed Mr. Roth’s early, funny material, but when the more serious stuff appeared, I really didn’t know what to make of it. I felt like he’d let us down and was writing to his own agenda rather than to ours.

And when Alea Jacta Est appeared?

Well sir, I didn’t even understand the name.

Quite so, Mr. Truant. Who would?

Oh, objection! It’s a common enough Latin phrase. Well, for any kid who ever read an Asterix book, anyway.

Overruled. Please continue, Mr. Truant.

Well, when I read the entry I felt like Mr. Roth was abandoning his blog, and all of the people that he’d encouraged to read it. And when the final entry before his holiday appeared, I was even more confused.

You’re referring to Season Two Finale?

Yessir. It was quite exciting, 'cos I like airplanes. But it wasn't very funny. And I was confused why Mr. Roth was writing about skydiving before his holiday.

(Roth bangs his head on the table repeatedly)

Thank you, no further questions.

(He turns to Roth, who has regained his composure)

Mr Roth, you admit that your final entry before holiday contained not a single joke?

Not one. And many mistook the metaphor for memoir.

Another brave experiment?

Yes, but generally it went down well. I was quite encouraged by it.

(Phalanx ignores this)

And did you not pull the same no-joke trick with your most recent entry, For Today I Am The Dog?

Yes, though that one was a genuine memoir. And a lot of people liked that one too.

(The Prosecutor examines his notes)

Yes, men and women. That must have been a shock, getting feedback from men? Your core audience is female, is it not? Why would you write about your jock experiences unless you were trying to elicit a new audience?

(He turns dramatically to the bench)

Your Honour, what more proof do we need against this villain?

Mr. Roth, do you have anything to say?

What about my recent entry about my bad back? That had a lot of humour in it.

Ah yes, A Simple Flight Of Stairs. I’m glad we’ve got to that.

You are? Why? It's simply a lighthearted attempt to add a voice to a body part, to liven up what was essentially a dry story about a bad back.

Yes indeed Mr. Roth, yet there is nothing simple about it. You employed literary devices to do it, through your own admission. Personification. Evocative descriptions of the voice itself. Your description of your ongoing suffering elicits Pathos. There is sarcasm, metaphor and self-satire. You even use bookend paragraphs at the start and end to give the piece a rounded completeness.

Yep, and it was a funnier story than when I started!

That is entirely besides the point, Mr. Roth!

(a hush falls over the courtroom)

This is all damning stuff, Mr. Roth.

Yes, but only if I were a public figure writing for mass appeal.

Are you saying you don’t write for the masses?

No, I write for myself. And for like-minded folk out there. I have no delusions about my ability to write for a mass market, though I admit I’d love a bigger audience. I started out recording conversations I thought were funny for posterity. This then expanded to include my perspectives on those conversations, which in turn expanded into a Director’s Cut view of everything, while remaining apropos of nothing. I then stepped outside those bounds to include significant life events, which while I hoped would appeal to my readers, I realised that they would not be for everybody. I lost some readers, but I gained some readers. Your charges against me are just a realisation of my growth as a writer, and the evolution of a trickle of a blog into a stream, and then into a modest river, albeit one teeming with tiny, beautiful, iridescent fish.

(there is a squeal of delight from the balcony)

Hi Cara. Glad you could make it.

Mr. Roth, if I see you catching passes in traffic again, I will clear the gallery.

Furthermore, Your Honour, I refuse to be bound by a pigeonhole of humour, and by other people’s definition of what humour is. I like what I do, and I think for the most part I express myself with humour, even when I am being serious.

(Phalanx goes for the kill)

Mr. Roth, I put it to you that you are an writer. A humorous, aspiring one perhaps, but a writer nonetheless. You immorally enticed literally hundreds of people to your blog over the course of two months using your humorous Twitter archive, and then suddenly forced them to go cold turkey when you shifted to more sober, introspective, less funny material.

I plead the Fifth!

In fact, Mr. Roth, I put it to you that this entire pantomime is little more than a clip-show blog entry, an attempt to justify your position to yourself, salve your conscience and promote your own work.

(Roth whips his communicator out)

Scotty, beam me up. I’ve been busted.

Court Bailiffs, stop that man!

(They restrain Roth)

Indigo Roth, I find you guilty as charged. Anything to say before I pass sentence?

Yes, I’d like to wish the Philadelphia Eagles good luck in their game against The New Orleans Saints later today.

Objection! The Saints are going to kick ass!

Sustained! Mr. Roth, I sentence you to five years Hard Labour!

WHAT? You’re going to make me blog using WordPress?

Take him away!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(Roth is led from the court in chains)

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009
I owe an obvious hat tip to Woody Allen.
Inspired by M. R. James’ courtroom ghost story, Martin’s Close

For Today I Am The Dog

I'm going to leave my green/grey masthead up for a few more days!

You'll have to excuse me, I'm still a bit giddy from the Philadelphia Eagles' 38-10 drubbing of the Carolina Panthers at the weekend. You may not have heard of either team or the National Football League (NFL) in which they play. In fact, I'd expect that if you live outside the USA you will have little/no knowledge of what us Brits call American Football.

But if you follow sports at all, you can appreciate that a resounding victory in a game away from home is a good start to any team's season.

For those still struggling: I support the Philadelphia Eagles; they dun good against a good team; they're off to a good start; I am happy.

But of course, all this talk of American football is apropos of something. It brings up many happy and self-indulgent thoughts about my own bruised and battered exploits in American football at university.

YOU, Indigo? I hear you say, astonished. You were a varsity athlete?

Man, you better believe it.

Ready for a flashback? Okay, here we go.

---

It's 1990, and I'm in my final year of University in the UK.

More specifically, it's Sunday morning, and time to haul my arse out of bed. It's early, and I ache. In the mirror, I note that I'm a bit black and blue. I recently started playing American football for my alma mater, and even though we've had just a dozen practices and three games, it's taking its toll.

My new sporting life has come as a surprise to everyone, myself included; I've never played any kind of team sport in my life. Or shown much inclination, even. I certainly would never have imagined playing on a first team for my university.

I use the term first team loosely, as (unlike most American universities) there is only one team. In fact, barely two thirds of one. Seventeen or eighteen of us, I think, when twenty five or thirty even would have been better. This divides in two, with half of the players playing on the offense, and half on the defense. Two specialised groups of players.

Our lack of numbers means many of us play on both offense and defense out of necessity. Extra lumps? Oh my, yes.

It's our team's rookie year in the UK's university football league. We have just four games scheduled, and today is our final game. I'd best get moving. Twenty minutes later, after some hasty breakfast and an equally hasty jog across campus, I join my teammates at the pickup point. They look worse than me.

The first three games could have been pretty demoralising, with a couple of low scorers and a total whitewash, but we're pretty upbeat about it. I'd hesitate to call us a bunch of jocks, but there's a lot of low humour, banter and male bonding going on as we board the bus and hit the highway.

I've been looking forward to this game. I've carried a dislike of the university we're travelling to for some time. A former girlfriend went there, and I never enjoyed my visits; the campus, the people, the attitude. As a sporting university, they love to tell you how great they are.

This trip feels like a chance to get something out of my system.

And as we leave the highway and hit the outskirts of town, something happens to me. It might sound melodramatic to say that a red mist descends on me, but that's as good a description as any. My mood darkens, I fall silent, banter bounces off me.

I gaze out of the window. Something is up.

The warm-up session and the practice on the field passes does nothing to lift my spirits. As is often the case when I'm not cheery, I feel like there is a large black dog with me. Today I sense his brooding presence sitting by the sideline.

Their team takes the field with predictable swagger; real jocks, not like us at all. Talented, strong, fast, and arrogant. They've seen the results of our first three games, and expect this to be a walkover. They're here to clean our clocks in the worst way.

And that's how it begins. The first quarter sees us taking a pasting, with some easy scores on the board for them. We can't quite get it together, we need to focus. The playbook is blurry in my mind, and I'm taking cues from the guy beside me on most plays.

And the other team are engaging in a spot of unnecessary roughness and laughing a lot. Our first three opponents had been up for some sport, but these guys want blood. They can win easily, but it's not enough. It doesn't sit well with me, and I'm not alone.

Enough is enough.

There is a lot of muttering and pointing as the game kicks into the second quarter. One guy on their defensive line is mouthing off a lot. Our quarterback calls the play, but as the huddle breaks three of us say his number. The play goes right, we go left. All three of us. The defender falls heavily, we pile on top, and some licks are taken under the pile. We pick up a penalty, but he gets picked up and carried from the field.

The referee eyes us sternly and we get an off-record warning, but the game continues.

And we start to get some respect. A few of their plays go sour, and their strategy changes a little. They're adapting, improvising, but we keep slowing them down. The rout they expected against our tiny, insignificant team is not happening. We defend, we block, we fight back. And as we march back down the field on the offensive, we even get three points on the board.

In the second half, we're still losing and there's little hope of a turnround, but it's a different game and we are a different team. We are not losing gracefully. There is no ground given without effort, no concession by us to our inexperience, no easy way to run past us.

We're losing, but damn they're working for it.

I'm a totally different player. I've struggled all season to find the channelled aggression needed to play this game well, but suddenly it is there. The dog no longer paces the sidelines. I am the dog. I have no trouble unleashing my anger on these guys that are here to hurt and humiliate us.

The war rages on, the clock runs down, and the game is over.

We've lost by twenty eight points, but this is not the result they came here for. They wanted sixty, something to cheer about in the bar afterwards.

Before we leave the pitch, two lines are formed, and we file past their team shaking hands. This is an odd process that ends every game, with every man shaking the hands of every man on the opposing team. It's very sporting, and I like it. And today we see their eyes cast down, their annoyance, and perhaps even receive a few genuine congratulations.

As we head back to the changing rooms, we hear their coach say Hey, never mind lads, at least we WON! but I suspect it's of little consolation to his team.

We hit the bus in high spirits, our season over. My time at university is almost over, too. Some of us will play again next year, but many of us won't. The team may even win a game at some point. I hope the road to that first victory started today.

I've no idea where the dog went, but he can find his own way home.

And yes, home awaits. There will be no heroes' welcome for us, but we're heroes nonetheless.

Indigo

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

A Simple Flight Of Stairs

An old friend came to visit today.

I'm in town, engaged in a bit of light retail therapy, and I notice my back twinging for the third time in as many minutes. Gentle warning spasms, quiet words. My back is talking to me.

Woo! Notice that? Didja notice?
Yep, I noticed thanks. I'll be careful.
Yeah, you do that, muffin-top.

I'm not fond of any of my internal voices, especially when they come from bodily parts. This one is from Brooklyn, and sounds like he's been gargling with gravel. It's as if Ernest Borgnine's Cabbie from Escape From New York is haranguing me from behind.

A few minutes later I get another twinge, quite a nasty one. Lower back, straight across, and into my hips. My legs feel weak, and I somehow flop into a conveniently-placed seat in the middle of the mall.

Heh, lucky that chair was there, fat boy.
What? Oh take a hike, pal. I'm just tired.
Tired? Yeah, pizza has a way of making you tired.
Oh gimme a break, I'm just gonna rest for a moment.
Whatever you say, chief. You take your time.

There's only one more shop to visit. A sports shop, I need a pair of running shoes.

Running shoes? Heh, that's almost funny.

I realise with dismay that what I want is upstairs. There's a lot of stairs. And stairs are not fun with a bad back. And dammit, there's no customer lift.

You sure you wanna do this? That's one doozy of a staircase.
It's a flight of stairs. Piece of cake. I'm forty and fit.
Heh.
I cycle, I lift weights.
No, you did. Not these past three months.
Since I started blogging? Is that when I stopped?
You better believe it. Too busy. You dropped the ball.

I ignore the warnings and press on, plodding resolutely up the stairs, one at a time. Ten, fifteen, no problem. Almost there.

Then it hits me again. Lower back again, nerves pinching, lateral agony, and vertical weakness. My legs crumple, all my strength rendered useless. I twist and inelegantly find a stair with my arse.

Safe. And nobody noticed.

I knew I shoulda done it as you were coming down.
Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus.
I thought yer bowels were gonna go there.
Yeah, so did I.
See, I told you. You've let yourself go, boy.
It's been worth it. I've achieved so much. Gained so much.
Yeah, about twenty pounds last time I looked.
Twenty pounds? I can lose that in a coupla months.
You could if the NFL season wasn't starting.
What the hell's that got to do with anything?
Eighteen weeks of football with Domino's on speed-dial?
Okay, okay...

I abandon the shopping, descend the stairs without incident. I sense he's trying to help now, grudgingly. I stop for a few minutes to have a coffee (no cake, Heh) and then walk gingerly back to my car.

Driving is easy, comfortable. Home is safely reached. And now I'm resting in a supportive chair as I type.

Man, I want to order pizza.

So, an old friend came to visit. I guess I'll have to get to work to make sure he won't be staying.

---

This blog is dedicated to the Philadelphia Eagles as they begin their Superbowl XLIV campaign in Carolina on Sunday.

Indigo

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

Fortune and Glory, Kid

Well, it had to happen eventually - Fame has come knocking.

Man, I hope she's brought Fortune with her.

Here's the thing - I've been unceremoniously given an award by CatLady over at How To Become A Cat Lady Without The Cats. She lobbed it over the wall at me, wrapped in yesterday's Discordian Gazette. There was string involved, but I'm damned if I can tell you what knots she used. When I finally burned the impenetrable wrapper in frustration, the award was thankfully intact.

It's the Honest Scrap award. Ain't it purty?

My investigations tell me that this is awarded to people who write from the heart. Better yet, you get it from a previous winner. There are a few strings attached, but let's gloss over those for a few moments; my ego could do with a boost, and a moment basking in the warm glow of limelight and appreciation will do me some good. There was little sun in Ireland.

So first of all, thank you to CatLady.

Then thanks to all the mad buggers who have inspired the blog over the past few months; Keith, Annie, Cara, Robbie, Rebecca, Harry. They didn't write it of course, that was all me. *strikes an heroic pose* But I genuinely like these people, laugh at their brainfarts on Twitter, and soberly admit that my output would be inferior without them.

And finally - obviously - I want to thank my momma and Elvis.

Ok, now, the strings. Quoting from CatLady's original post:

1) “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared! (I believe firmly in passing good fortune along)

2) The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows. (Now hang on, I never agreed to that)

3) The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers. (I'm not sure I like that many)

4) Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award. (Damn, I have no email addresses, so I hope they read their comments? Oh, of course they do)

5) Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them. (everyone is welcome in the House of Indigo. Except the lion.)

The smart cookies amongst you will immediately recognise this as a classic chain letter mechanism, and I can't dispute the logic of this. Yes, from a standing start of one blogger, with one round of awards every week, the award will have been received by 11 billion people before my birthday in mid-November. Hmmm.

But I'm absolutely delighted that CatLady chose me amongst her ten. It may even blow my skirt up; I'll get back to you on that. CatLady reads a lot of blogs, and the fact she likes mine more than a ton of others makes me feel all warm and fuzzy in a way that really doesn't happen very often.

So tush and fi to your damned cynicism!

For those waiting for the good stuff, wait no longer:

1) I scrub up pretty good. Shame about the ears.

2) I didn't always have short, swept back hair.

3) Five years ago, I weighed 325 pounds. I lost 70 pounds over the course of a year through hard work and sheer bloody-mindedness, and have now settled into 270. This may still sound a lot, but at 6'5" and broad, I carry it well.

4) The adventures of masterspy Indigo Roth are not entirely fictional. I can say no more.

5) When I was five, I attached a crocodile clip to my tongue, and hopped up and down until my mother removed it through tears of laughter.

6) I speak three languages badly. One of them may be English. I also have a smattering of others, but usually only enough to be polite and buy things.

7) Of all the people in history, I would have liked to meet Harland Sanders, honorary Colonel of Kentucky and founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I just want to say thanks. If I could choose, I would meet him in the 1930s, so I could try his original original recipe.

8) I carry an enormous amount of other people's secrets; I have a kind face. And I will never share them, which has caused friction in relationships.

9) I have phenomenally bad reading habits, despite writing for a living. Last year I read one book, an incremental increase over the year before.

10) One of these ten is a lie. It may be this one.

My intended victims? In no particular order, other than their order in my blogroll right now:

1) Unknown Mami over at her eponymous blog. Nice writing and cool photos.

2) Harry over at Harry Hotspur, his hardcore UK soccer blog. I never understand a word of it, of course, but it's passionate stuff.

3) Violet over at Sweet Violet Cooks. Always, always makes me hungry. Thankfully, this is a situation I always have a solution for.

4) Nancy over at F8HASIT. It's quite possible that of all the folk listed, Nancy may be the one who has received this particular award before. Second time's a charm, eh?

5) Rebecca over at Provocation of Mine (d). Sporadic of late - I hope for her triumphant return soon - but always interesting. Me and the dog miss ya, hon!

6) Janie over at DreamChaser98. A relatively new blog, but one I dip into.

7) Annie over at eolistpetite. One of my cloest friends, and my first stop of any day when there's a new post. Truly from the heart, and different every time.

8) Ms. Bunny over at Bunny Boiler. I've not been able to access this one for a while *cough* invitation lost in the post *cough* and I sure wish I could! Cross-dressing, drama queen schnorrers? You couldn't make this stuff up.

No, there's not ten; I really don't read that many. Bad reading habits, remember? But dammit, does that mean there won't be eleven billion winners before my birthday?

The couple of famous folk I read either won't notice my mail or won't reply, so I'll save myself the bother. But, in a rare moment of Kafka:

I'll sit at my window and dream to myself of that message when evening comes.

To all of those I pass this award onto:

I hope you'll look on this as a hat tip from me to you.

I like what you do. Spread the love.

See y'all soon,

Indigo

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

Oiling The Wheels Of Chance

Indigo In Marrakech - Part 5

As I set foot in the Kasbah Market, I wonder if I've made a bad decision. It really isn't very welcoming, and doesn't suggest that tourists frequent it much. There's no sign of the colourful piles of fruit and fragrant spices that you see in the guidebooks. I receive too many surprised glances, cause too many whispers, and - oddest of all - nobody tries to sell me anything.

I don't feel unsafe, but I feel out of place. I keep my camera out of sight, and continue to make my way in.

I walk past a fishmongery set up on wooden boxes in direct sunlight, with flies buzzing in hordes around the dry-looking fish. I wonder if this has been here throughout the heat of the day?

I pause, gawping, outside a shop in an archway where a man is weighing a live and uncooperative chicken. The customer nods and pays for his purchase. The transaction complete, the shopkeeper slaughters the bird on the counter, and the customer takes it away.

But I totally fail to stop at a roadside barber's shop, where a queue of locals wait for the services of a man with a cut-throat razor and no visible hygiene.

It's a world apart from my glimpse of the colourful entrance to the Soukh earlier in the day; I think that's where the tourists go. Perhaps I'm here at the wrong time of day? Perhaps I need to explore more? Both of these may be true, but in an uncharacteristic moment of disquiet, I decide to get the hell out. Seeing a sign for one of the older palaces, I stride off purposefully.

The walk to the Palais de la Bahia is uneventful, with just a few utterances of Non, merci at a succession of beggars along the way. I've been doing this reflexively all day, and might be surprised if I'd tallied the times it's been needed. There is genuine poverty here. The flights here are cheap and plentiful, the architecture impressive, and it's easy to forget that Morocco is a third world country. But never for long.

Once I'm well inside the palace in the main courtyard, I stop to catch my breath and take a drink. The courtyard is peculiar. Finished a century ago, and largely unused for the past few decades, it is well preserved, but feels empty. The ruins of a castle will always fire the imagination, while a fully restored watermill will show you exactly what it was like. But this is neither. There is an abandoned, eerie, almost haunted feel about the place.

This feeling continues as I explore. Perhaps other visitors feel the same? There's plenty of fellow travellers about, but we're all so damned quiet.

I pass through several beautiful courtyards filled with orange trees, carved stonework and mosaic floors. It's the perfect time of day to be here; the low sun adds a warmth to the scene that would be lost in the blistering heat of midday, and a cool breeze moves amongst the arches.

The guide book tells me this was actually not the palace of the ruler, but of his Grand Vizier. Apparently he had four wives and two dozen concubines. While I marvel at the exquisite carving in the courtyards, I wonder how he ever had time to enjoy them.

And the geometric carvings really are something. I take a closer look, wondering if they're mouldings, but no. Each is a hand-carved piece of stone. Wow. Some underpaid artisan probably poured blood, sweat and tears into these; no wonder this place took decades to complete.

I wander through a gleaming, high-walled courtyard which looks to be made entirely of marble. A fountain gurgles pleasantly at its centre. Then, passing through a grand archway, I find myself in what seems to be the final room; a rope across a broad archway halfway down its length suggests that this is the end of the line. I'm not surprised; the palace is large, but only a fraction of it is open to the public. I circle the room until I reach the rope, and peer beyond.

Further into the room is a high mosaic'd ceiling which is quite breathtaking. Geometric eight-fold and sixteen-fold symmetry, bright colours, intricate, beautiful. I raise my camera to capture it, but a uniformed guard appears out of nowhere and tells me that flash photography is forbidden. I apologise, step back, and circuit the room again.

Then a cough catches my attention. Another guard stands beyond the rope and beckons me forward. As I wander towards him, I notice the first guard has gone. The new guy takes to rope aside momentarily as he ushers me through. He says nothing, perhaps deciding that he knows no German, but indicates my camera and waves upwards expansively, inviting me to photograph the ceiling. I notice my camera's battery is dangerously low, but I snap a few pictures with different settings to try and capture something in the shadows above.

I offer him a quick Shukran, a simple word of thanks in Arabic. He smiles his appreciation and decides that there is more to show me. He leads me to a door and opens it to reveal a spiral staircase. This takes us upwards into a wide, low chamber. It is unfurnished but decorated. Again, he indicates I should take photos, but my camera chooses this moment to whine and die. He fills the silence with a little of the history of the room. It belonged to someone important, but I am unclear of this person's role; a French word that we both understand eludes us. I think he's trying describing a senior cleric, though several mentions of the word harem make me wonder whether I've caught it right.

Our mini-tour done, he leads me back down the stairs, and then turns at the bottom with his hand out. Thank you he says, thought I have given him nothing yet. I'm getting a bit pissed off with this kind of thing. Common sense sees this as a gratuity and an annoyance, but on reflection I relent; by a stroke of lucky timing, I have a few extra pictures, I gained access to a room that is off-limits to the public, and shared some interesting if not entirely comprehensible chit-chat.

I feel I should show my appreciation of this good fortune. It's like I'm oiling the wheels of chance for future use.

I slip him a note, making sure it's an appropriate value, and he salutes me on my way. And a few minutes later, I find myself back on the street.

It is dusk now, and after quickly checking my French dictionary I step into a shop to buy some batteries for my camera. Armed with this vocabulary, I make myself understood without bother, but I have to improvise a little to add postcards and a cigar to my basket. The shopkeeper seems to appreciate my efforts though, and offers me thanks in English as I leave.

As with most things in life, making the effort can make a difference.

The sun must have just set; the faithful are being called to prayer from the now illuminated Koutoubia Mosque. I am drawn in that direction, and after a few minutes find myself just inside its grounds.

There is something magical about this moment; it is one of those fabled instants where time stands still and you know you will never be here in quite the same way again.

I light my cigar, a rare treat for me, and pause for a few minutes. I then turn and walk slowly back to my hotel through teeming streets. The crowd seems to part before me, and there are astonished and perhaps admiring looks in my direction, at this tall, bold, foreigner who seems to be exactly where he is supposed to be at this moment in time.

My flight home is late tomorrow morning, and while there are still a few things to do and see, I know in my heart that nothing will compare to this profound memory I'm making in the singing, twilight streets of Marrakech.

I lose myself in the moment and forget about tomorrow.


Hope you've enjoyed the trip. Thanks for reading, Indigo

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

An Interlude With Mint Tea

Indigo In Marrakech - Part 4

The bus ride back towards Marrakech is an uneventful as the journey out. It takes another half hour of jaw-jarring bumpy roads just to hit the outskirts of town. We then proceed to meander through various outlying districts, all of which are in the more modern French half of the city. Not one of them catches my eye.

The first glimmer of interest is a series of road signs at a major intersection, another twenty minutes in. Fes is a former capital of Morocco, as is Marrakech itself. The current capital is the port city of Rabat, which took over the honour from Marrakech in the 1950s, a shift of some 50 miles.

This is like the capital of England being moved from London to Oxford. Having spent time in both London and Oxford, I rather like the idea.

And at the foot of the bill, I see a city name that makes me smile.

Humphrey Bogart would be proud of me. Actually, come to think, maybe he wouldn't; I remember that I've never actually seen Casablanca. As a film lover, this seems a bit of an omission. I've never been that bothered by it, I suppose? But I did see the Maltese Falcon, and can imagine Bogey looking me over with disdain as he utters a line from that classic.

People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you'll be polite.

The sign for the Royal Palace catches my eye. This is marked on the map as a point of interest. We head off in that direction, and I quickly see a building that is impressive enough to be a palace.

But no. This is far too new and shiny, and the architecture's wrong. The guide tells us it's the municipal theatre, and encourages us to go see a show, though he doesn't mention what kind of productions they put on. I wonder what Sheakespeare would be like in Arabic? Ah well, as I'm here for just a day more, I'm unlikely to find out.

A few minutes later, we reach the actual Royal Palace, and I am so unimpressed by it, I don't reach for my camera. However, directly opposite the palace is something far more remarkable. Quite beautiful, in fact.

This is Bab Agnaou, the Royal Gate into the legendary Kasbah district of town. The Kasbah? The same Kasbah that The Clash sang about? The guidebook doesn't say anything about that*, but I'm off the bus in a flash and across the street, imagining something pretty special on the other side.

[* with good reason; it's nothing to do with it.]

Passing through the gate, I find... nothing. Just an alleyway extending in both directions. I take a right turn and find myself at the public gate to the Kasbah in about thirty metres.

This arrangement seems daft, so I check the guidebook. Apparently, a former King wanted his own gate to the Kasbah, which he could see from the palace opposite. So he had Bab Agnaou built, an impressive but largely pointless landmark.

I wonder idly if the folks who designed and placed the Millennium Dome in London's Greenwich Peninsular were similarly inspired.

I wander down the first main street and find another enclosure facing me, with another mosque and another gate. A city within a city, or so it seems. I linger for a moment, wondering what to do, where to go.

I really should have known better.

Like a rocket, a vendor come emerges from his shop and does the German?/English/French dance with me, much as the opportunist young beggars did as I left my riad earlier in the day. Perhaps I should have taken a warning from this, but in a moment, I find myself in a shop that is selling attractive local pottery and other less noteworthy trinkets.

The chap is friendly, and happy to dumb his French down a bit for this humble tourist. And some of his wares really are rather impressive - the enormous pieces of intricately glazed pottery especially - though I have no way of getting them home in one piece. Too big for hand luggage. And Cargo? Break-o! Smithereen-o, in all likelihood. So I gently steer him away from the pottery, and ask about hats.

He leaps into action and shows me a fez or two. Nice, but not what I want. I rather liked the cloth hats the musicians were wearing earlier in the day. A cross between a skullcap and a truncated cloth cylinder, probably a traditional arabic/moslem hat, with stuff sewn onto them and designs emroidered into them. I struggle to explain this. My workmanlike French did not include mathematics or the creative arts; the French for embroidery* eludes me.

[* Broderie, as in Broderie Anglaise. How could I forget?]

The penny seems to drop, and though he explains he doesn't have one, he gleefully explains that he knows exactly where to find one. I say it's no bother, I'll look elsewhere, but he insists on helping me, in a charming friendly manner that somehow doesn't rub me up the wrong way. He calls over another fella, perhaps a younger family member or general gopher, and despatches him into the Kasbah market round the corner to locate the hats.

He then offers me some mint tea. I decline politely, expecting to be there a few minutes only, but he says it is the very best mint tea and that it will help cool me down, again gently insisting. I shrug and smile my acceptance, feeling somewhat trapped by this man's earnest attempts to keep me in his shop. He chats to me constantly as I check his shop over again, while he brews the tea on the counter. It all feels rather surreal.

When the tea is ready, he brings me a very comfortable chair, and we sit and drink the incredibly sweet tea together, making polite chit chat in broken French. He tells me all about his family and the weather, using verbs and vocabulary I can remember clearly from school. I share a little about my family, and my trip to Tunisia, and somehow we start talking about dogs. We end up laughing about big dumb mutts, which it turns out we both have a fondness for.

Minutes pass pleasantly, but turn into a quarter of an hour rather quicker than the shopkeeper would like. Slightly embarrassed, he assures me that his colleague is searching for the very best hats, and that I will be delighted with the result. He then offers to show me how to tie a ceremonial head-scarf. Bemused, I accept his offer, and he quickly wraps a long strip of blue cloth onto my head. Standing back, he snaps a photo* with my camera to record the moment.

[* Yes, I have the photo. No, I'm not showing you. Seventy pounds heavier than I am now, I resemble the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.]

More time passes. Sharing his embarrassment now, I accept more tea, and we lurch onto the subject of football, which is less comfortable territory. I hope the gopher will return soon, and for this pleasant-but-awkward ordeal to end.

And return he does. Empty handed. There is a flurry of angry Arabic and the lackey is despatched with his tail between his djellaba. The vendor smiles broadly and apologises smoothly for his colleague's failure. As a consolation, he offers me a very good deal on a magnificent fez.

Actually, it's not a great deal at all; he's probably looking to recoup his time, effort and tea. I attempt to haggle with the man, coming in at half his initial offer.

This is a mistake. He looks genuinely offended. Not the street pantomime of vendors all over Tunisia, immortalised in Monty Python's Life of Brian, but a look of unpleasant surprise. He simply says Non, repeats the price slowly, perhaps wondering if my language skills have failed me? I get the message; this is the price. It's really not a good deal, but I've enjoyed some pleasant tea and conversation (yeah yeah, sucker) and I pay what he asks for.

He gives me my fez and without a word of farewell he ushers me unceremoniously from the shop.

Back in the street, the sun has passed its zenith and is racing west. I have no idea how long I was in there, but it must have been over half an hour. And I'm confused by the final act; I thought haggling over price was how things worked in North Africa?

A bad assumption, it seems.

I pause to get my bearings again, but manage to avoid any more shopkeepers.

The Kasbah Mosque, a squat younger brother to the magnificent mosque I saw earlier in the day, looks down on me disapprovingly in the light of late afternoon, as if to say:

Thou shalt not haggle in Morocco

That's twice today I've been told off by imaginary things.

I think the sun is getting to me.

Concluded in Part 5 - Oiling The Wheels Of Chance

Indigo

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