Why do theme parks exist? There’s literally no point to them at all. Whoever came up with the idea originally must have got some funny looks. "You really want to screw together hundreds of metal pipes and power thousands of people a day along them, 87 feet in the air, upside down, at 56mph?"
Take the rollercoaster. Apparently they’re entertaining. Sure, if you consider entertainment to involve being sent hurtling at break-neck speeds through corkscrew turns, flung arse-over-tit so high you can see your house 30 miles away, except that you can’t because your gripped with a terror so extreme you can’t help but scream insanely any old wild gibberish that comes into your confused, spinning, little mind.
Well yes, they are daft, stupid, ridiculous and outright bonkers, all in equal measure, but crikey, would you believe it, they are actually fun. File it under ‘Perverse but True’. I say this because this week I rode my first ever rollercoaster, or four, on a thankfully empty, midweek visit to Flamingo Land.
Despite the offering the name suggests, I found myself jumping at the chance to induct myself on a thrilling array of highly pointless yet exciting rides. The highlight - undoubtedly - was the God-knows-how-high fling up the ominously named, but more ominously looking, Cliff Hanger. Unlike the tame 1993 film of the same name, the real, wet-the-bed-that’s-rather-ma-housive Cliff Hanger had me flying out my seat (ok, there was about a centimetre of give) - despite the thick steel pinning my shoulders to the seat. Now the concept of the Cliff Hanger is to power you appallingly high (180ft) into the air at speeds I can only describe as pants-filling, swooshing you immediately back down before a return journey during which you collect the stomach you left at the top only to pause - accentuating the horror - ahead of a final, vicious plummet to what feels like certain death. The horror. The horror. Apparently, and I'm no physicist, this ride exceeds the speed of gravity during its 'freefall launch'. According to its billing on the FL website this is a ride for visitors with nerves of steel: 'Experience the sheer exhilaration of a missile launch combined with BASE-jumping all in a single, spectacular ride'...'One of Europe’s tallest vertical drop rides'.
It’s sense-defying but I’m glad I did it. That was my 'proper' theme park virginity put to bed and I can finally let go of a memory that’s haunted me for much of my 26 years, of me and my sister crying our hearts out on the Spinning Teacups at Bridlington sea front.
Greater horrors exist.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
Socks. Rocked. Off.
Gig Review: Feeder @ The Leadmill, Sheffield, 18/04/2010
The forgotten pop-rock trio have burst back into life. Record label departed - Echo dissolved - Feeder (or Renegades for the sake of their comeback tour of small venues across the country) have been born again. Dismissed by many as fading veterans going through the motions, their last few albums - since Comfort In Sound - were sedate affairs and sounded like the band had hit their plateau and were bored with music.
Their reinvention took another small step at the Leadmill, when, after an entrance to John Wayne music, long-haired, baby-faced, Jesus-esque, frontman Grant Nicholas emerged on stage and proceeded to rock like never before. It was refreshing to see a musician play with a grin on his face, the lads' thrashed out and hurtled through a catalouge of newly realised tracks, recorded recently in Wales, which exploded into life without polished build up and ended just as abruptly. It was a savage reaction to their previous fare. Full throttle, no holds barred, rock out.
Grant took the odd question from the crowd, and made no apology to the sell-out audience that this set would consist of new music - although they did go on to play some of their early, upbeat tracks such as Tangerine - which anyone who read up on the show and what the band had been up to would have realised before the stompfest began, but there's always one isn't there. "I came to see Feeder!" growled one angry punter, Grant didn't rise to him other than to tell him he'd come to the wrong gig, later he asked "Has he gone yet?", he had and to which some sections of the crowd reliably informed the band that the said chap was indeed a "w*nker" - yes, yes he was, everyone else was lapping up the fresh sound, a band released from their shackles and playing what they want to play, and clearly enjoying it. Down By The River was a standout track for me - a fusion of all that was great about Feeder and all that is exciting about Renegades.
It was a cool gesture that everyone who bought a ticket was offered a free four-track EP in the queue before the gig. If you get a chance to see the lads perform this year, don't hesitate. Prepare to rock. Bring on the album.
The forgotten pop-rock trio have burst back into life. Record label departed - Echo dissolved - Feeder (or Renegades for the sake of their comeback tour of small venues across the country) have been born again. Dismissed by many as fading veterans going through the motions, their last few albums - since Comfort In Sound - were sedate affairs and sounded like the band had hit their plateau and were bored with music.
Their reinvention took another small step at the Leadmill, when, after an entrance to John Wayne music, long-haired, baby-faced, Jesus-esque, frontman Grant Nicholas emerged on stage and proceeded to rock like never before. It was refreshing to see a musician play with a grin on his face, the lads' thrashed out and hurtled through a catalouge of newly realised tracks, recorded recently in Wales, which exploded into life without polished build up and ended just as abruptly. It was a savage reaction to their previous fare. Full throttle, no holds barred, rock out.
Grant took the odd question from the crowd, and made no apology to the sell-out audience that this set would consist of new music - although they did go on to play some of their early, upbeat tracks such as Tangerine - which anyone who read up on the show and what the band had been up to would have realised before the stompfest began, but there's always one isn't there. "I came to see Feeder!" growled one angry punter, Grant didn't rise to him other than to tell him he'd come to the wrong gig, later he asked "Has he gone yet?", he had and to which some sections of the crowd reliably informed the band that the said chap was indeed a "w*nker" - yes, yes he was, everyone else was lapping up the fresh sound, a band released from their shackles and playing what they want to play, and clearly enjoying it. Down By The River was a standout track for me - a fusion of all that was great about Feeder and all that is exciting about Renegades.
It was a cool gesture that everyone who bought a ticket was offered a free four-track EP in the queue before the gig. If you get a chance to see the lads perform this year, don't hesitate. Prepare to rock. Bring on the album.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Perspective
"Rafa Out", "Yanks Out"...'Torres & Gerrard future in doubt as Benitez flunks on Top 4 guarantee'...'Babel dropped after venting Tweet frustration'...'Riera: Rafa hates me'...depressing sub-plots and headlines in what has been an unforeseen season of woe for everyone attached to Liverpool Football Club. But sometimes our obsession and passion for football makes us lose sight of the bigger picture.
Tomorrow is April 15. Missing out on 4th place and unpicking the latest Anfield boardroom developments seem rather less important. It is on this day that everybody with any conscience spares a thought for the 96 who lost their lives on that unassuming day at Hillsborough in 1989, and for their families who have been denied a frank admittance of what happened and have endured years of unacceptable legal frustration.
My family may be from Liverpool but I'm not. I was five-years-old at the time of the tragedy. I only really learned about what happened years later, when I joined my dad watching a documentary about it. Haunting images even for a detached fan years later. Other than that I saw highlights on season videos of the annual service held at the ground. But Brian Reade's superb book, 43 Years With The Same Bird, has given me a context I'd been missing, from the lies in a particular national newspaper to the altered statements used as evidence which only served to undermine the families' pursuit of some kind of closure. Brian is very frank about how the tragedy effected him. His account laid it on the line for me, the stark reality of it all. The frustration and anguish.
Today I've read some accounts of the day by fans who were there. I can never really understand what happened but I'm grateful to the likes of Brian and @Ian_LFC for his post on Twitter (see http://passionatelylfc.blogspot.com) for presenting their stories to new generations of Reds like me. They keep the flame burning.
So I'll be pausing tomorrow afternoon to remember 96 like-minded people who held dear the same club that is so instringically entwined as a part of me, and I'll summon up that perspective the next time I hear that famous Bill Shankly quote: "Some people believe that football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that..."
Walk On.
Tomorrow is April 15. Missing out on 4th place and unpicking the latest Anfield boardroom developments seem rather less important. It is on this day that everybody with any conscience spares a thought for the 96 who lost their lives on that unassuming day at Hillsborough in 1989, and for their families who have been denied a frank admittance of what happened and have endured years of unacceptable legal frustration.
My family may be from Liverpool but I'm not. I was five-years-old at the time of the tragedy. I only really learned about what happened years later, when I joined my dad watching a documentary about it. Haunting images even for a detached fan years later. Other than that I saw highlights on season videos of the annual service held at the ground. But Brian Reade's superb book, 43 Years With The Same Bird, has given me a context I'd been missing, from the lies in a particular national newspaper to the altered statements used as evidence which only served to undermine the families' pursuit of some kind of closure. Brian is very frank about how the tragedy effected him. His account laid it on the line for me, the stark reality of it all. The frustration and anguish.
Today I've read some accounts of the day by fans who were there. I can never really understand what happened but I'm grateful to the likes of Brian and @Ian_LFC for his post on Twitter (see http://passionatelylfc.blogspot.com) for presenting their stories to new generations of Reds like me. They keep the flame burning.
So I'll be pausing tomorrow afternoon to remember 96 like-minded people who held dear the same club that is so instringically entwined as a part of me, and I'll summon up that perspective the next time I hear that famous Bill Shankly quote: "Some people believe that football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that..."
Walk On.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Heads held high through the storm
I've just watched Liverpool's nil-nil draw at Anfield against Fulham and I started tweeting my thoughts on the state of things but writing everything I was thinking far exceeds the limitations of a 140-character post, so I'll break my LFC blog-duck. Where do I start? I'm feeling quite philosophical.
The season has been pretty much a write-off. The unexpected, prolonged nature of Aquilani's injury woes have played a big part. I'm certain Rafa and his team were confident he would be a regular starter to build a post-Alonso team around, by at least Christmas. Rafa's team selection and tactics have been dictated for much of the season by his absence and the limitations of our squad soon became apparant.
Some say Rafa should never have 'gambled' on spending so much on an injured player, not least when he was brought in to replace one of our most influential players, Xabi. But we can only guess which other players in that position were available and obtainable with the money we had to spend. Maybe Aquilani was the best prospect and so it was worth the wait of what we thought was a much shorter spell on the sidelines. I don't think I'm being naive or blindly pro-Rafa, but I think we should give our leader the benefit of the doubt on this one. Pundits have written Il Principino off but, and I don't know the exact stats, the Italian has only featured in about 20 games in all competitions, many as brief, cameo, sub appearances. Very few, if any, have been 90-minute run outs. I haven't made my mind up yet. On the plus side, unless we are really unfortunate, he surely won't miss so many games next season. With Aqua a more regular starter the way the team plays will surely be different. What we can take from his spells on the pitch so far is that he is a quick, one-two touch passer who likes to creep forward.
Other positives - yes there are some to take from the season, honest - is the emergence of Martin Kelly and Daniel Pacheco. Glen Johnson too has added a new dimension to our attack. I'm desperate to see more of Pacheco. He's looked very positive and direct in possession when he's come off the bench, using the ball well and making clever runs off the ball. With 4th place realistically gone, I'm crossing my fingers Rafa will give him a start. Maybe we don't need to buy a striker in the summer? I'd rather we spent a decent sum on a quality wide-man or two. Kuyt could be deployed more regularly up front, whether in rotation or in tandem with Torres depending on injuries to El Nino and Stevie G. Riera will be gone so two side midfielders (sorry, Pro Evo speak) would be useful recruits. A more defensively sound left-back should undoubtedly be a top priority.
I won't buy into is all the rumours that Gerrard and Torres will walk this summer without the prospect of CL football. There's every chance this season is a blip (Lord I hope so!) and that they will see it as that. Gerrard, if not Torres too, will feel like they owe it to the fans. Only if next season was a shower should we worry on that front.
Let's stay positive, win the Europa League, get that longed for investment this summer and put this wretched season behind us.
Walk On.
The season has been pretty much a write-off. The unexpected, prolonged nature of Aquilani's injury woes have played a big part. I'm certain Rafa and his team were confident he would be a regular starter to build a post-Alonso team around, by at least Christmas. Rafa's team selection and tactics have been dictated for much of the season by his absence and the limitations of our squad soon became apparant.
Some say Rafa should never have 'gambled' on spending so much on an injured player, not least when he was brought in to replace one of our most influential players, Xabi. But we can only guess which other players in that position were available and obtainable with the money we had to spend. Maybe Aquilani was the best prospect and so it was worth the wait of what we thought was a much shorter spell on the sidelines. I don't think I'm being naive or blindly pro-Rafa, but I think we should give our leader the benefit of the doubt on this one. Pundits have written Il Principino off but, and I don't know the exact stats, the Italian has only featured in about 20 games in all competitions, many as brief, cameo, sub appearances. Very few, if any, have been 90-minute run outs. I haven't made my mind up yet. On the plus side, unless we are really unfortunate, he surely won't miss so many games next season. With Aqua a more regular starter the way the team plays will surely be different. What we can take from his spells on the pitch so far is that he is a quick, one-two touch passer who likes to creep forward.
Other positives - yes there are some to take from the season, honest - is the emergence of Martin Kelly and Daniel Pacheco. Glen Johnson too has added a new dimension to our attack. I'm desperate to see more of Pacheco. He's looked very positive and direct in possession when he's come off the bench, using the ball well and making clever runs off the ball. With 4th place realistically gone, I'm crossing my fingers Rafa will give him a start. Maybe we don't need to buy a striker in the summer? I'd rather we spent a decent sum on a quality wide-man or two. Kuyt could be deployed more regularly up front, whether in rotation or in tandem with Torres depending on injuries to El Nino and Stevie G. Riera will be gone so two side midfielders (sorry, Pro Evo speak) would be useful recruits. A more defensively sound left-back should undoubtedly be a top priority.
I won't buy into is all the rumours that Gerrard and Torres will walk this summer without the prospect of CL football. There's every chance this season is a blip (Lord I hope so!) and that they will see it as that. Gerrard, if not Torres too, will feel like they owe it to the fans. Only if next season was a shower should we worry on that front.
Let's stay positive, win the Europa League, get that longed for investment this summer and put this wretched season behind us.
Walk On.
Friday, 26 March 2010
Crossing the Line
Heeeey, heeeey, what's the matter with your faaace, faaaace?!
It's contorted. My face that is. Lips curled into a brazen smile. Twenty-six-year-old wrinkles formed at the corners of my mouth. Cracked, chapped lips. Panting. Red ears. A few beads of what feels like lava sweats down my forehead onto my eyebrows. I'm knackered, elated, relieved, satisfied, ego-recharged, uninhibited. That was me at 9.58am on Sunday, March 21. The Bradford 10k Run completed, my arms were aloft in some kind of ridiculous victory salute as I posed for a quick snap taken by one of the Epilepsy Action bods for my first-person report that would appear in the paper the next day. I felt, and looked like in the photo, as though I'd embraced delirium at the end of some hugely historical and life-changing experience. All I'd done was run a little over six miles continuously. Small victories.
Changes in your mind, changes in your life, changes in the times...
I'd urge any couch potato like me to give a run ago. They're totally addictive. I don 't know how much to apportion it to my own OCD-obsessiveness but you get sucked into overtaking one runner after another based on their physical appearance. Repetitive, unrelenting, vanity...I can't, no won't, finish behind them you say to yourself, eyes on the senior/hefty runner in front of you. In my last three kilometres I took great pleasure in upping my pace to slip passed a less than slight young female, packed into her very, short navy shorts like a whale stuffed into a shoebox or an elephant squeezed into a telephone box or Johnny Vegas in a Smart car - you get the point.
It's all about the dum, dum, dubba, dum, dum
Wonga wise I'm well chuffed. Including Gift Aid, that's a tadge over £200 my kind sponsorers have raised for Ep. Action. Thanks every one who backed me, both donation wise and general encouragement. The plan is to do a 10-mile race happening in Bradford again in October and hopefully, if I can get a place, the London Marathon next year.
It's contorted. My face that is. Lips curled into a brazen smile. Twenty-six-year-old wrinkles formed at the corners of my mouth. Cracked, chapped lips. Panting. Red ears. A few beads of what feels like lava sweats down my forehead onto my eyebrows. I'm knackered, elated, relieved, satisfied, ego-recharged, uninhibited. That was me at 9.58am on Sunday, March 21. The Bradford 10k Run completed, my arms were aloft in some kind of ridiculous victory salute as I posed for a quick snap taken by one of the Epilepsy Action bods for my first-person report that would appear in the paper the next day. I felt, and looked like in the photo, as though I'd embraced delirium at the end of some hugely historical and life-changing experience. All I'd done was run a little over six miles continuously. Small victories.
Changes in your mind, changes in your life, changes in the times...
I'd urge any couch potato like me to give a run ago. They're totally addictive. I don 't know how much to apportion it to my own OCD-obsessiveness but you get sucked into overtaking one runner after another based on their physical appearance. Repetitive, unrelenting, vanity...I can't, no won't, finish behind them you say to yourself, eyes on the senior/hefty runner in front of you. In my last three kilometres I took great pleasure in upping my pace to slip passed a less than slight young female, packed into her very, short navy shorts like a whale stuffed into a shoebox or an elephant squeezed into a telephone box or Johnny Vegas in a Smart car - you get the point.
It's all about the dum, dum, dubba, dum, dum
Wonga wise I'm well chuffed. Including Gift Aid, that's a tadge over £200 my kind sponsorers have raised for Ep. Action. Thanks every one who backed me, both donation wise and general encouragement. The plan is to do a 10-mile race happening in Bradford again in October and hopefully, if I can get a place, the London Marathon next year.
Friday, 12 March 2010
"Run Forest, Run!"
'Puppet master, move my strings, my legs don't work'
Never has the idea of a stairlift seemed so attractive. The bath's filling up to ease my weary bones after a three-mile run around a big field. Upon my return home I could barely climb the stairs, I kid you not. Seriously if there is one silliest thing I have done - GCSE English lesson antics excluded - it is surely to sign up to tackle a ten-kilometre (that's 6.2 miles to you and me) run with just a week and a half to get fit.
'How did I get here?'
When the autumn sun fades and the dark, the damp and the doom of winter descends, any exercise I may have been partaking in; albeit on an irregular basis, ceases abruptly. I mean even renting a squash court seems an extravagence as the Christmas-New-Year-penny-pinching kicks in and the notion of jogging in the gloom is all too bleak and too exhausting to even consider. Suddenly you find yourself, dozens of mince pies, numerous swigged beers and countless chocolates later, in a state of comatosed indifference as you wait for spring.
'Tweet, tweet, good morning, this is your spring wake up call'
Well spring, as of two weeks on Sunday - March 28 - does finally arrive. It's official an' that - an hour less in bed. And it is on the Sunday before that I'll be putting a 'day of rest' to the sword, stood scantily clad (given the likely temperature) and looking positively petrified in front of Bradford City Hall. For that's when I'll be staring fearfully down the barrel of the Bradford 10k Race, all in aid of Yeadon-based charity, Epilepsy Action. To anyone whose had even a month's training six miles should be a doddle. A running friend at work boasts she has completed the distance in thirty minutes! On the entry form, when asked for my expected completion time, I hesitated and, suspiciously, filled in the box with one hour and twenty minutes. Afterall I'm a pen pushing, desk jockey whose daily walk up the office stairs leaves me slightly breathless. What other type of people write blogs? Brief forays recently, surfing and horse riding, left my limbs shattered for four days apiece. I'm a sympton of Modern Britain and my own idleness.
'Maggot! Give me 20!'
The training regime. Today's effort was my second run, a three-mile jaunt around The Stray. My circuit is reassuring right next to Harrogate District Hospital. The rain lashed onto my face, my pristine, white leather Reeboks muddied as I traversed dirty puddle after dirty puddle secreted menacingly among the grass as I blazed - eeerhem - my trail. Buoyed by the generosity of my colleagues and friends I attacked it with determination. Refreshed, having had that bath, and sat more comfortably in clean clothes and the stark reality of what I've let myself in for truely dawns. Crap. Nine days to go. Fingers crossed it won't take me that long to get across the finish line.
www.justgiving.com/Ben-Barnett
Never has the idea of a stairlift seemed so attractive. The bath's filling up to ease my weary bones after a three-mile run around a big field. Upon my return home I could barely climb the stairs, I kid you not. Seriously if there is one silliest thing I have done - GCSE English lesson antics excluded - it is surely to sign up to tackle a ten-kilometre (that's 6.2 miles to you and me) run with just a week and a half to get fit.
'How did I get here?'
When the autumn sun fades and the dark, the damp and the doom of winter descends, any exercise I may have been partaking in; albeit on an irregular basis, ceases abruptly. I mean even renting a squash court seems an extravagence as the Christmas-New-Year-penny-pinching kicks in and the notion of jogging in the gloom is all too bleak and too exhausting to even consider. Suddenly you find yourself, dozens of mince pies, numerous swigged beers and countless chocolates later, in a state of comatosed indifference as you wait for spring.
'Tweet, tweet, good morning, this is your spring wake up call'
Well spring, as of two weeks on Sunday - March 28 - does finally arrive. It's official an' that - an hour less in bed. And it is on the Sunday before that I'll be putting a 'day of rest' to the sword, stood scantily clad (given the likely temperature) and looking positively petrified in front of Bradford City Hall. For that's when I'll be staring fearfully down the barrel of the Bradford 10k Race, all in aid of Yeadon-based charity, Epilepsy Action. To anyone whose had even a month's training six miles should be a doddle. A running friend at work boasts she has completed the distance in thirty minutes! On the entry form, when asked for my expected completion time, I hesitated and, suspiciously, filled in the box with one hour and twenty minutes. Afterall I'm a pen pushing, desk jockey whose daily walk up the office stairs leaves me slightly breathless. What other type of people write blogs? Brief forays recently, surfing and horse riding, left my limbs shattered for four days apiece. I'm a sympton of Modern Britain and my own idleness.
'Maggot! Give me 20!'
The training regime. Today's effort was my second run, a three-mile jaunt around The Stray. My circuit is reassuring right next to Harrogate District Hospital. The rain lashed onto my face, my pristine, white leather Reeboks muddied as I traversed dirty puddle after dirty puddle secreted menacingly among the grass as I blazed - eeerhem - my trail. Buoyed by the generosity of my colleagues and friends I attacked it with determination. Refreshed, having had that bath, and sat more comfortably in clean clothes and the stark reality of what I've let myself in for truely dawns. Crap. Nine days to go. Fingers crossed it won't take me that long to get across the finish line.
www.justgiving.com/Ben-Barnett
Sunday, 17 January 2010
http://www.travelblog.org/Bloggers/sam--ben-and-dan/
For those who may have missed my tour of Europe alongside Sam and Dan... The grammar makes me cringe looking back
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