Advertisement
Published: September 9th 2009
Friday 3rd July to Saturday 29th August, 2009 There was precious little time for recovering from the stresses and strains of trans atlantic travel following my touchdown at LAX, it was after all just over twenty four hours to the start of the nation’s biggest shindig, an over the top remembrance of the day over three hundred years earlier when a rebellious bunch of traitorist colonial swines rejected any previous allegiance to the Crown declaring themselves a brand new nation in the process and, with the decisive assistance of Dutch, Spanish and of course French armies defeated their homesick former countrymen audaciously pilfering a language into the bargain.
It is one of the planet’s foremost not to mention over the top displays of nationalistic pride, flags raised and faces painted and one which naturally gives an Englishman no cause whatsoever for celebration. Having said that I saw no reason why I should feel excluded from the festivities, a party is a party whatever the reason and it was a day off work after all.
And so ensued a day (and night) on a crowded beach policed by sixty of Long Beach’s finest which culminated in the majority of
my apartment blocks occupant’s risking life and intoxicated limb by taking to the roof to witness the Queen Mary pyrotechnics.
Since my return to the States from my UK trip the month’s of July and August have scooted by in a blur of summer social activity leaving precious little time for blogging. This entry, in a bid to get up to date is effectively a summary of events of the last eight weeks of Summer.
Sports:
Soccer: the Return of the Prodigal Son. July 19th, the date that marked the reappearance in LA of old golden bollocks himself, David Beckham, the event to herald his return a money spinning friendly with the very club that had secretly negotiated to steal him from the Americans in the first place, Italian giants AC Milan. His temporary defection on completion of the US season months earlier had caused a minor scandal Stateside, the Yanks appearing to have little or no sympathy for his plight nor his resultant desire to seek pastures new to spread his balls far and wide, a plight which for once had occurred as result of events beyond even his control.
One can fully understand
In The Summertime !
You're havin' a laff ain't cha ?!?his reasons for first migrating to the US and then for consequently wanting to leave. Cast aside as an undesirableby his country and entering the twilight of his career the challenge of promoting the beautiful game in a land which steadfastly refused to embrace it whilst getting paid a King’s ransom into the bargain must have appeared massive.
But a recall to the national squad and with it one last chance at the holy grail, The World Cup Finals, allied to the call from Italy left him with a tricky decision to make, the options simple. Perform alongside frustratingly inept team mates in front of sparse audiences with limited knowledge of the games finer intricacies or appear week in week out with some of the world’s best players in it’s most majestic stadiums full to capacity with some of it’s more fanatical crowds. No contest ?.
Not since my teenage days of following the fortune’s of Chester City have I been one for attending
friendly soccer matches but DB’s return plus the presence of such luminaries as Ronaldinho and Kaka left me compelled to attend dragging Phil along with me in the process and having driven to within
In The Summertime !
Home Depot Centre on Beck's return. fifty metres of the stadium frontage and been asked to part company with an inflated twenty dollar parking fee we followed the stewards directions and were left with a good twenty five minute hike back to the ground.
When we finally made it back feeling like Sherpa Tensing and Edmund Hilary you could sense a heady mix of excitement and tension in the air, highly unusual for a game of no particular importance. Sure enough, the first clear sign of the crowd’s unrest was when Beckham’s name was read out by the announcer and greeted with a mixture of boos and applause. I looked around to see who the booing morons were and noticed that the majority of lemming like descenters were dressed in standard footie fan uniform, replica Galaxy shirts with the number twenty three and word ‘Beckham’ emblazoned across the back in big black letters. Buffoons.
Love him or loathe him I couldn’t help feeling for him. I admire him immensely and recalled having to watch him put up with a similar barrage of abuse from his own countrymen following his world cup dismissal against Argentina. The impressively distinguished manner with which he had faced his
In The Summertime !
Miss Americas, July 4th. abusers back then had also registerded in my memory banks so when he strode over to take the first corner of the game from just yards in front of us I whooped, clapped and hollered my support . His decision was, after all the same that any self respecting footballer given a second chance would have made.
The game, a surprisingly entertaining one ended in a 2-2 draw and despite starting disappointingly with a handful of stray passes by the end Becks, looking as lean and hungry as he ever has had answered his detractors in the best possible way with an excellent performance and two assists, one a forty yard sprint followed by an inch perfect pass. Like he has done many times in his past by the final whistle he’d silenced the boo boys, the punters instead acknowledging how privileged they were to have one of the most famous people on the planet displaying his huge talent in their own back yard.
Golf: A sensible idea upon returning home following my woefully inept Portugese golfing performance of just a week or so earlier would have been to immediately open the wardrobe doors and hurl the
In The Summertime !
Stop. Police. Action. clubs far within never to remove them again, at least not until holiday time reared it’s wonderful head again twelve months from now. Instead I somehow found myself driving south on a sunny Saturday morning to Arroyo Trabuco Golf Course for what threatened, albeit briefly, to be a carbon copy repeat of the nightmare.
My playing partners for the day were to be Phil, Dan and Callum, a Scottish pal visiting from Seattle. Dan and Callum are both keen and regular golfers and more than respectable single handicappers unlike Phil who literally never plays. Consequently, when after four holes I found myself trailing the field with the novice striking the ball lumberjack style a long and straight country mile I feared the onset of another humiliation.
Fortunately, I’m elated to say, it didn’t last as things thankfully took a complete turn for the better on the sixth hole immediately after witnessing the most sobering sight I’ve ever seen on a golf course. If ever there was something to snap you to your senses and literally force you to hit the ball straight keeping it out of trouble it in the process it was the sight of one of
In The Summertime !
Phil gives Galaxy Chad his Flapjacks, a good swap for free tickets. several small sign’s erected on the fringes of the fairway where the terrain transformed from lush green into a brown bush dotted scrubland.
The signs immediately conjured memories of just a week earlier in Portugal where, using my club head to part the twelve inch long grass flanking a shallow greenside ditch in search of my ball I’d unnerved something slim, brown and three foot long that had promptly slithered to safety at the speed of light causing me to speedily turn in the opposite direction and flee almost embarrassing myself by depositing a trail of urine in my wake as I went. I was later assured that the reptile in question would
probably not have been poisonous and would no doubt have been just as scared as me, words which did absolutely nothing to lessen the shock.
The scenario presented here by the signs that lined the fairway was a different kettle of fish altogether. Beneath the heading ‘Rattlesnakes’ and a sketched drawing of a particularily spiteful looking member of the species which more resembled a turd with sinister eyes and a forked tongue were written the words;-
‘Rattlesnakes may be found in this area. They
are important members of the natural community. They will not attack but if cornered or disturbed they will defend themselves’. Yeah right. Whatever ! The Royal and Ancient rules of the game of golf list various types of hazard and their effect on the methods of scoring; Sand traps, lateral water etc etc but give no mention whatsoever of any that will see you rushed to casualty with sirens blaring.
I wondered how many rattlers had been consulted as to their opinion on whether they’d consider attacking, pondered how easy given their fabulous camouflage it would be to disturb one and recalled the numerous western movies watched as a young boy, invariably featuring the likes of Richard Widmark and John Wayne where fatal wounds too numerous to mention were inflicted with scant regard for race or creed on cowboys and Indians alike which had gone someway to explaining my lifetime phobia of snakes.
With two exceptions, one being a feebly topped tee shot that plopped into the nearby pond my ball remained on a grassy lie for the remainder of the day and my credibility to call myself a golfer was thankfully, twelve holes later fully restored. Roll
In The Summertime !
Waving to the fireworks from the roof. on Portugal 2010.
Bat and Ball; One of the more frustrating aspects of the last eight weeks has been the failure by American TV companies, indeed the American nation to acknowledge the existence of the beautiful game of cricket, especially as this has been the period that has seen the fascinating battle for the Ashes unfold. Cricket is played in all corners of the world, sport ubiquitous on American TV and available at every flick of the remote but mention even of the existence of the game is nowhere to be found.
As I write it is the eve of the final test and tomorrow morning will once again see me lock myself off from the chatter of the office by donning the headphones and tuning in to the delightful ramblings of Blowers, Aggers, Boycs et al. Thank the Lord for the internet.
Part of the reason for their unwillingness to acknowledge cricket as a worthwhile sport could be their reluctance to accept a rival bat and ball game thus diminishing the importance of their very own baseball, rounders for grown ups. I’ve tried hard to get into the sport even going as far as to
In The Summertime !
Last of the Mohicans. purchase a book on the rules and regulations but all to no avail. Saturation point coverage is the principal reason so when Phil included me on a corporate invite he’d received to an Anaheim Angels game I saw it as last chance saloon. I left the game three hours later loving it.
We were in a corporate box with the best seat in the house , an endless supply of Pizza, Dogs and Beer and with our host available to answer all my probing questions. Who wouldn’t have loved it.
Mountain Biking; Phil’s spur of the moment decision to outlay the equivalent a small country’s annual spending on a new mountain bike meant that as part of the deal I also picked up a ‘new’ machine, his old one at what I’m assured by all and sundry was a bargain two hundred And fifty bucks.
I’ve been riding round for the last twelve month’s on Lisa’s hand me down cast off, a turquoise blue contraption with a slow rear tyre puncture, a saddle possessing the inclination to lose all semblance of grip on it’s fastener meaning ones backside is prone to dropping six to eight inches
unannounced at any given time, a frame made not surprisingly given the identity of its previous owner to suit the bodily proportions of a female meaning that to peddle at speed puts me in danger of knocking myself out with my knees and a noticeable lack of suspension of any shape or form. Not that that the suspension thing was a problem, I’d never owned a bike with suspension before and as my useage was restricted simply to nipping to the gym or on the occasional beach track exercise work out there seemed no point.
Consequently, when I took delivery of the cut price front
and rear suspensioned silver dream machine it seemed only right to try it out in the natural habitat for which it was intended, a mountain.
Alisa Veijo is hardly a mountain, more a rather large hill situated half an hour so south of Long Beach and dotted with dusty, rocky trails which cut through the woodland and which are frequented all day long by bikers dressed for the part, all shiny lycra, helmets and gloves. Phil, who’d been biking once before had asked me to accompany him to join Doug and Nigel without,
In The Summertime !
Despite the sign I strayed again. as usual, giving me a full run down on what to expect and anxious to get an instant return on my two fifty bucks I’d accepted.
The first thing noticeable when we rendezvoused in the car park was that all three of my companions along with every other cyclist I saw buzzing around, and there were a few of them, were wearing head protection. Doug, in a mix of concern for my safety and of not wanting to have me feeling left out offered me use of his son’s helmet which needless to say didn’t fit, he is only ten after all but I thanked him all the same and told him I had no intention of needing one, a surefire sign that I was totally oblivious to what was to come.
It was good to be away from the LA conurbation if a little disconcerting that within ten minutes of leaving the car park we had passed signs warning of the presence of rattlesnakes and mountain lions, one of whom had apparently just last year dragged a biker from his steed and given him a piece of his mind and taken a detour around a family of
In The Summertime !
Little Miss Sunshine at The Iron Maidens. tarantula spiders the size of cricket balls that sat nonchalantly in the middle of the path. This was wildlife in it’s most treacherous form.
After an exhausting forty five minute climb that caused the sweat to flood out of me by the bucket full we took in the view, took on the water and prepared for the descent. Before we set off Doug, keen to make sure his companions lived to ride with him again proffered the advice of an experienced biker; lower the seat, use the back brake only and to aid stability keep your ass pushed out over the back wheel like a jockey in the home straight. It was obviously not going to be just a case of a gentle ride down. Halfway down he stopped to allow us to catch up before addressing us;
“Very careful over the next two hundred yards guys” he warned as we looked down on a forty five degree stretch of rounded boulders that given the addition of water would have resembled the most treacherous of white water rapids, “This is where I broke my ribs”! WTF. Doug was an experienced rider with full bodily protection, me a complete
and utter novice in just a pair of shorts and trainers.
For the next five minutes I concentrated intently on closely following Phil’s route through the hazard, my right hand barely leaving the brake handle until just yards before the terrain returned to dusty track the back end of his bike reared into the air like a rodeo stallion kicking it’s hooves, momentarily balanced perpendicularily and motionless and then teetered forward sending him crashing into the rockery. It was nasty. My memory immediately flooded back to Corfu 1983 when as the only motorcyclist amongst the magnificent five he’d Barry Sheened a hairpin bend on his 50cc hire bike and ended up losing his large toenail and a good deal of knee flesh into the bargain. Fortunately, despite emitting a handful of anguished yells nothing was broken, just a bruised shin and an equally bruised ego and we thankfully safely negotiated the remainder of the descent. As of yet I haven’t returned.
Travel;
The guaranteed sunshine that greets you upon awakening on each summer weekend morning has usually been more than enough to bring on a ‘sod it, let’s have a day on the beach’ outlook and as
In The Summertime !
Iron Maidens' gonna Getcha a result excursions beyond the City limits of Long Beach since Spring have been virtually non existent. Until my arrival in California I knew nothing of the existence of a large lump of rock, inhabited by almost four thousand people, that lies at an occasionally visible distance from it’s coastline but with Nigel planning a day out for his soon to return to the UK son Tom I decided it was time for a visit and accepted the invitation to join them.
One hour on the high speed catamaran watching the passing whales blowing off steam is all it takes arrive at the cluttered harbor of Santa Catalina Island’s main town of Avalon, a town which is as far removed from America as could be imagined. The mood is positively horizontal. Pretty pastel coloured houses dotted on the green hillside evoking images of some idyllic Mediterranean isle where cars are replaced by golf carts, where pelicans greet you from the boat and where seals bask on the rocks fronting the harbor. It was just a day trip with time only for lunch, afternoon cocktails and dinner and so a pretty expensive but thoroughly worthwhile day was had.
Entertainment
In The Summertime !
Which is more than the Andrews Sisters will. Party in the Park. USA
Cinema As part of it’s summer series of entertainment Long Beach City Council hosts various events to keep it’s citizens occupied and out of mischief. ‘Party in the Park’, an excuse to sit in public knocking back wine under the pretence of listening to the Big Band Sound on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, and a once weekly run of ‘Movies on the Beach’ on Tuesday’s which, due entirely to the title I’d selected to watch brought a whole new meaning to the term ‘surround sound’.
Aside from my previously mentioned snake phobia there is one other thing that instills the fear of God into me; Sharks and nothing could be more surreal than watching the Spielberg classic ‘Jaws’, albeit for the umpteenth time in the warmth of a California (yes I know Jaws was set on the east Coast) evening with the sound and smell of the real surf roaring in the background.
Despite having seen ‘Jaws’ innumerable times the fact that my memory is deteriorating at the speed of light meant that it was akin to watching it for the first time, so much so that the scene where the head rolls in the
In The Summertime !
"Can I have my ball back please"? hull of the sunken boat caused me, along with many others, to let out an audible gasp whilst almost jumping out of my skin in the process and whilst I managed to avoid being savaged by the predator of the deep I still returned home nursing severe bite wounds, the damned sand flies rubbing their hands with glee and feasting on my apparently succulent and juicy ankles.
Gigs Various gigs were attended during this period. Whitesnake (excellent) and Judas Priest (embarrassing) on the same bill at The Gibson Ampitheatre, a large arena within the confines of Universal Studios, ZZ Top at the instruction of my brother "You gotta go to that Piggy, they'll be dead soon" (very entertaining playing all the old classics but with a dreadful sound and a drummer, Frank Beard, who I had to constantly question whether he had actually been taxidermised following his demise), The Love Festival, a night of electronic 'rave' music performed on various stages at the Colesium and my own personal favorite, The Iron Maidens, rocking out in front of another adoring crowd of Hispanic headbangers at the boiling hot Santa Fe Springs Swap Meet.
Visitations;
At just after
In The Summertime !
The best right foot the world has ever seen. one o clock on a Friday lunchtime as my thoughts unavoidably drifted to the coming weekend my phone rang. The display read ‘Number Not Known’ and fully expecting it to be just another pre recorded hawker message offering me insurance or some such unwanted commodity I considered not answering. For some reason ignoring my instincts I did answer and a real voice appeared on the other end of the line.
“Hey Matty, it’s Gary. Gary Blease”. Bloody hell. I’d received an e mail a couple of weeks earlier from Andy ‘Skid’ Nicholl saying that Gary had been asking for my e mail address but he didn’t say why, time had since passed and I’d completely put it out of my mind. It quickly transpired that Gary, a purser with British Airways who’d spent his working life flying to all corners of the globe had arrived in Long Beach earlier that day and was in town for the weekend. A class reunion was definitely in order so having picked Gary up from his downtown hotel and introduced him to Phil the three of us spent a couple of wild nights sampling the delights of Belmont Shore.
Aside from a
In The Summertime !
With Jacko gone someone had to take Bubbles to the game.! propensity for thriftiness Gaz also has an uncanny knack of being pursued by anything related to animosity. It’s not that he seeks out trouble, he most certainly doesn’t, it’s just that he will not allow himself or his acquaintances to be bullied or pushed around. And there was nothing further from his mind when we stopped to chat to a handful of revelers relaxing in the front garden of one of the Bayshore Rental Home in the early hours of Saturday morning.
Our chatting, jovial and friendly, unfortunately disturbed the overweight, long haired Hispanic guy who was slumped semi comatose in the corner of the garden and like the giant having been disturbed by young Jack he slowly and very bad temperedly came to life. We were all still quite unaware of his presence as he managed to stagger to his feet snatching a wine bottle from the adjacent table as he rose before letting fly in our direction with an expletive filled volley of slurred vitriol. Fe-Fi-Fo-Thumb I smell the blood of some Englishmen !
A lack of violence or even the threat of such has been one of the many plus points of my Stateside move.
In The Summertime !
With Jeff n Deb on the Gondola Over here violent situations, at least in my presence have rarely arisen as opposed to in the UK where it seemed for many to be almost an integral part of a good night out but this act of unprovoked aggression in our general direction was like a red rag to Gary who, without a second thought and in the manner of David with Goliath instantly retorted.
“C’mon then, me and you, now, here”.
The behemoth was visibly shocked and puzzled at Gary’s willingness to take him on, a look to express his feelings instantly appearing across his face. How could someone dare to question his undoubted brute strength and power especially in front of some ladies ? Like a rhino stunned by the hunters dart he appeared to turn full circle before winding up his arm like a pitcher seeking one last speed ball in the final innings and hurling the bottle against the house frontage, stumbling inside cursing incoherently under his breath as he went.
Expecting a high rise condo in the city Gary was taken aback at the beauty of the location where I now lived and said something to me during his stay that
convinced me that my recovery from the lowest period of my life was complete. He recalled a conversation we’d had with his wife Eni eighteen months earlier after which they’d commented to each other how low I had seemed and added that the difference from then to now was immeasurable. It was music to my ears.
Gary left us to return to his hotel at three o’clock on Sunday morning in preparation for his UK bound flight later that afternoon and if my condition the following morning was anything to go by must have appeared the most disheveled BA purser in the history of air travel. He vowed to return at the earliest opportunity upholding his reputation for frugality by neglecting to remember to pay Phil and I over one hundred bucks of bar bills. Despite that I look forward to his return.
The other visitor to have graced these shores this summer is Mikey, Phil’s 25 year old brother in law. He’s Welsh and proud but we really shouldn’t hold that against him. He’s also likeable and friendly with a cracking laugh and a prospensity to party which he somehow seemed to drag me into.
The
In The Summertime !
And Mark 'n' Angie. month of August ended with Mikey still here and with the imminent arrival to Belmont Shore of two English roses, mother Margy and 22 year old niece Kat. There were bound to be some stories to be told from this visitation but for now they'd have to wait.
Footnote: As all will be aware on August 23rd England successfully regained the Ashes from the Aussies. Rule Brittannia.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.13s; Tpl: 0.018s; cc: 11; qc: 26; dbt: 0.0531s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
Wayne
non-member comment
War and Peace
Bloody hell lad, you talk about my 575 pages ,you've got a novel here yourself! Where do you find the time to write all this and go gallavanting all round the country?