Pierre and Motley's

Pierre and his flat mate Aisha...



Us getting ready for town...

Thursday

(That morning)

It’s sunny! I’m watching a movie inside! It’s sunny! I’m going outside…

(That afternoon)

Now I am back inside. I was outside for about an hour. In the sun. No clouds. Yet I have severly limited my chances of having children in the future, it is that frigging cold out there. Brrrraaaa!

So now it is time for a moive and to thaw out.

(that night)

Dinner of chicken stir fry out fo the way and it was time to prepare for town. Being a guy, I was already set with the look. Just needed to work on the atmosphere. So while Pierre got a few JD's down him, I knocked back a bottle and a half of wine and we settled down for some family guy goodness. Then town.

Swweeeeeeeet! Town was going off. Or we were going off. I had an awesome time. Reckon, make that know, the others did too. Whoop whoop. Life is back on track.

Lazy, happy, days

So I’ve been at Pierre’s almost a week. Apart from his birthday I haven’t really been up to much since I got here. Can’t blame me really though cause the weather is always rotten and not very inclined to inviting you outside.

But today, feeling a little lazy and wanting some fresh air, I cruised to town to buy some shoes. Only I got distracted on the way and ended up at the Manx museum.

Oh and Manx is what are called if you live on the Isle of Man. Like being a kiwi from New Zealand. Or actually it is more official. I guess like being a New Zealander. They even have their own government, their own version of the pound and their own, not really used I think, language.

So where was I? At the Manx museum or Thie Tashtee Vannin in Manx. Not too shabby a one either. Freeness helps too. Started with arty pics, then a map gallery of the isles mapped history, then some boring geology, a cool gallery of Vikings and Celts who lived here once, a cool Giant deer skeleton, then some stuff on how tourism got here, the animal life, and of course the TT motorbike race that goes off each year and for which this isle is most famous.

Then I cruised town for a bit before heading home to crash once more in front of the T.V watching Borat, Superbad, Beerfest, Butterfly Effect, Garden Grove and such.

Probably won’t change much either till Thursday when we start a 3 day bender. Saturday is Aussie day, Thursday is Ed day (DJ at a club) and Friday just fits between (o;

Denied…. but for real this time

Happy Birthday Pierre! Whooop! Whoooop! Time to enjoy.

Punch fountain set up, red glad wrap over the lights, Ed the DJ set up in the corner, snacks out and we were ready to partay like it was 2009!

So enjoying a few drops and welcoming in the guests, I notice this cute girl walk in. But talking to someone else I don’t head over for a bit. When I go say hi, she’s like “Hey I know you”! I was standing there thinking “No you don’t. I’m from New Zealand”? Then she busts out with, “You’re that guy from the ferry!” Holy crap! It is her. It’s the fit girl from the ferry! What are the chances?

Awesome, you may be thinking? Enjoy, may have enetered your mind. But no. Sadly it was about now that my testicles rode so high up into my body that they took on the role of ovaries (no offence ladies) and I became quite the girl. I blame the punch.

Anyway, to make a long and embarrassing story for me short, i slept alone and now have to put up with constant ribbing from Pierre till the end of my days for not going there. For not even truly trying to go there. Maybe 25 chicks to 10 guys at this party, a number telling Pierre and his sis they likes me, and me chasing only one of them in a manner sure to make others question my sexuality for years to come.

Mmmm, fun times.

The Irish sea. Just as temperamental, just as wet.

Uuuurrrggghhh! *Spit* Huuuurrrrgggghhhh! *Spit*

It was a three hour trip across the Irish sea to reach the Isle and so I had settled down for a spot of beauty sleep to pass the time. Only I wasn’t to sleep after all. I was woken by the noise of everyone around me throwing up. Or heaps of people anyway. This old guy next to me was yakking like a champ, a lady made it half way across the ferry lounge floor before crumpling to her knees and letting out a chunder beer drinkers would be proud of, a little girl was being led to the toilet with a napkin over her mouth, spew dribbling out from the sides and this was to go on all trip. I even visited the toilet at one stage to take a dump only to find them full of guys throwing up.

But one person not throwing up, in fact they looked to be dozing when they were not texting, was the fit looking girl in front of me. And by fit I mean drop dead gorgeous....

I spent the remainder of my trip listening to my ipod and keeping myself distracted by staring at her. She and I laughed at the crashes from the kitchen and the vomiting but on my part, it was all an act as the vomit noises began to make me consider joining in the fun.

We made it safely though without and on arrival I pointed the fit girl out to Pierre who had already noticed her and we left discussing the high potential this island seemed to have of the female persuasion.

Heysham?

Heysham you ask? Where the hell’s that? Don’t worry, you’re not alone.

Pierre’s party was on the 19^th. I had two days to get there from Manchester but it would be cool to be there a day in advance to chill out beforehand. So I said see ya to Vic (I’d be back afterwards) and jumped on a bus to Preston.

You see, I’d asked a bus conductor how to get to Heysham. He didn’t know where it was but after I explained it was up North, he advised me to go to the shuttle company that did between city routes – even dropped me off outside. So I cruise in and ask for a shuttle to Heysham. “Where”? the guy asks. “Heysham, it’s the ferry port to the Isle of Man”. “Isle of Man? Where’s that?” No kidding! The guy was a drop kick. Whole company were a few crayons short of rainbow. Thankfully this postie guy next to me in the que told me to follow him. He took me to another local place, waited in cue with me and then got me a brochure explaining how to get to a place called Preston. From there you just catch a bus to Heysham. He does the trip a few times each year to visit family. Sweeeeet!

But when I googled Preston and even called the company to check that there were indeed buses to Heysham from there, noone had a clue. None existed on the website and the guy on the phone, once again, didn’t even know Heysham! Who the heck lived in this city? A lone hermit?

So putting some faith in the guy and figuring if it worked I would save seven pound (5 pound for the bus, 7 pound for the train to Heysham), I gave it a go. Caught my bus to Preston and then went looking for my connector. First info place said to try the other. She didn’t have a clue (reacurring theme here in England it seems. Transport companies know nothing), but again I lucked in with a guy in cue. He found me the brochure, took me to my bus, told the driver where to drop me off and then after wiping my arse for me, I departed for Heysham.

Got off at the last stop, thanked the driver (everyone always does here) and set off by foot to the ferry terminal 1km away. Only 1km? Felt like I had joined the French foreign legion. I had my little brollie out in front of me cause it was spitting only it was windy too. Like cyclone Bola windy. The umbrella had wrapped itself around me like some love sick wife and helped me walk into at least three traffic poles cause I couldn’t see anything. With my hair vying for a spot on Opera and with a few expletives escaping from between my lips, I battled on and eventually found myself in the safety of the terminal. Looking a little the worse for wear, I boarded the ferry and flopped into a seat.

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The Manchester tourist

I’m pretty much over museums and churches and stuff. Or so I keep reckoning. Yet I keep finding myself at one again and again.

Everywhere is by bus. Three pounds and you can go anywhere all day in the region. View from bus...

This time it was the Imperial War Museum North located in Trafford. And it is worth seeing. It covers war issues from World War One to present day. Displays, hands on action, movies, models… everything. This is one of the best museums I have ever entered. Recommended by the Lonely Planet, they did good on this one.

And on the way you can go visit the Manchester football stadium and take a tour if ya want - I'll wait for a real game myself.

Another place they’d said was worth visitng, in fact it was rated a “’not to be missed’ sight, was the MOSI or Museum of Science and Industry. Holy crap this place sucked arse! Not to be missed?! Not to be listed more like. This place covers such fascinating roles as ‘the waste disposal workings of Manchester City’, ‘what a train looks like’, ‘Votes for Women’ (just jokes), models of looms, and a kids activity centre. In fact, if I had been 5 years old it could have been cool. But as I wasn’t 5 years old, it just wasn’t cool. Two brain cells and a serious concussion would help immensely if you plan on making a visit.

Lowry Gallery. This was next to the War Museum. Like next door. But this didn’t stop me from enjoying a 35 minute walk to get there passing around the Quays and over bridges and through the suburbs. In fact I visited a whole new town called Strafford. Yes, I may have been a little disorientated. Eventually I made it though and the coolness of the War Museum had obviously rubbed of on this one. Named after this famous painter LS Lowry, it houses some of his works (awesome!) and a number of other exhibitions. When I was there, the main attraction was a photo exhibition by Harold Riley which was also a cut above. Very cool.

The Beggar and Ann

The Cripples, 1949

Then on the following day I decided I’d take Vic’s advice and go see some non-lonely planet made recommendations. These included the town hall and square (ok), recently opened old school library (ok) and the URBIS Exhibition Centre (superb!). This centre has heaps of stuff going down. When I was there it was a show on Drum and Bass, some uni art stuff and what was for me the main attraction, the D&AD Exhibition: The best advertising and design in the world. That’s right, in the world! Woooohoooow! They made you stop and think They made you snigger, blush, gasp, go goosebumpily, look twice and then go back for thirds. Check out these crap photos of really cool ads I took…

These were cool. Looks like the other persons life is about to become a part of yours…

(pic)

Wars make orphans…

A look into the dangers of selfish human behviours on endangered animals…

Bank sign connected to Solar panels. Actually helping out…

This guy coloured a page of his journal every day showing his thoughts. Then pasted together it was a favorite…

Air postal service. As it says, “The most impressive ideas are the most simple ones”

You either love it or hate it; think vegemite…

Airport to Manchester

The world is full of horror. Just look at the news on any given day. What is sadly, and I think hugely, under represented however is the massive amount of good that is also going on.

I have been in England only 4 days. Not even four full days. Yet I have already witnessed acts of kindness worthy of a place on Channel One news and met dozens of people who I would happily let into my home (If I had one. Ha-ha) or be honored to call a friend.

When I arrived in the Liverpool airport on the 15^th, I was scared penniless of the pound. I planned to hitch to Manchester to met Vic and so I began to approach people to see where they were headed. Sadly none were heading my way and all actually suggested it to be a dangerous idea to hitch in this region.

Young, male, white and in my big puffy tough man down jacket I figured they were being overly cautious but I was new to the country and so figured I’d follow their advice for now and hitch later. So I forked out my 5 pounds for a bus to Manchester and set off wondering what the real English, not just the ones I’d met traveling, were going to be like.

I arrived at Shudehill station and sat down to await Vicky’s arrival. The time was around 5pm and I’d been led to believe she mightn’t make it till just after 7pm. No problem. The life of a backpacker makes for few problems and even less hurry.

(There’s a smokin girl sitting opposite me as I write this on the ferry to Pierre’s. England has quite a few I think)

On went the ipod and I settled down to some G’n’R to pass the time. Watching my breath make small pools of warm air in front of me, I tried to mimic Gandalf and create a ship of smoke passing through a ring. Sadly the best I could manage was a small row boat with two passengers passing under a bridge.

After5 minutes or so, a bus conductor approached, obviously impressed by my smoke blowing skillz. But playing it cool, he instead asked if I was waiting for the bus to the airport. I explained I’d just been dropped off and was waiting on a friend to come get me.

When he came back at half the hour and spotted me still waiting, he laughed as I told him my friend wouldn’t arrive until after seven. Then at seven he was back. And again at 7:30pm. Asking if all was right, I told him how I hadn’t a cell phone, any pounds and that my credit card wasn’t being accepted by the card phone. I also didn’t want to go get some change in case Vic came and went while I was gone. So I was just waiting it out.

But being awesome, he offered me his cell to call Vic. No money in return, no nothing. Just being nice – and I did offer. So I call her up and all good. After deciding I would probably lose my way trying to find her, she came and picked me up from where I was, we grabbed a pint and then headed back to her place.

And speaking English is like a breath of fresh air after the past few months of sucking in foreign fumes (o:

Denied

Crossing into England, I head up to the Liverpool airport passport check in. Molding into the non-national cue, I fill out a quick form stating my name, occupation and nationality. Being a kiwi and part of the common wealth, I figure no problems and before long I find myself at the desk handing my form to a smiling blonde woman with perfect teeth. The kind of lady you want to trust. The kind you’d liketo get to know.

“Where have you come from today?” she asks.
“Vienna, oops, I mean Florence. But I flew out from Pisa airport” I reply
“And what is your reason for visiting the UK?”
“I’ve come over for a friend’s birthday on the Isle of Man”
“How long do you intend to stay for?”
“Um, not sure really. We’ll say 30 days but it won’t be that long”
“Do you have a flight out?”
“No. I might get a lift out from London with a trucky driver I know who does weekly trips to Holland”
“So after England you are heading to Holland?”
“Um, not sure. Might go to Holland or maybe Germany or I might go visit Ireland or Scotland while I’m in this neck of the woods. Hard to say. My travel is pretty spontaneous at the moment. I’m doing my big O.E”
“And who’s paying for all this travel?”
“Myself mostly, I’ve saved all my life”

At this point she outright laughs at me! And most of my answers have been followed by her looking at me with big questioning eyes. So to make her feel better I offer up…

“Oh, I will work a bit at some stage. Maybe in Norway or Germany.”
“You have a visa?”
“No but my dad is a British citizen and so I’m hoping to get a British passport. Then I can work in the EU without issue”
“And when do you plan to do this?”
“What?”
“Get a passport”
“Oh, I’m doing it now”

New tack…

“And where will you stay while you are here?”
“The ferry to the Isle leaves at 2pm and only goes from Heysham, so I’ll go stay in Manchester tonight with a girl I know and then head to the Isle tomorrow”
“How long have you known this girl?”
“I met her in Laos for 3 days”
“Oh”

This said with a very, “Oh, that kind of knowing a girl” voice. Then it was back to playing 20 questions…

“How old is your friend turning”
“23 I think”
“When is his birthday?”
“His birthday is the 16^th but the party is on the 19^th”
“And he’s British?”
“No, he’s from New Zealand and he’s also French I think”
“French and New Zealand?”
“Yeah?”
“How long has he been here for?”
“Dunno, maybe a year or so? Not to sure really”

I honestly expected her to ask me what colour underwear he had on next! But instead she kindly asks me to go and sit down on the other side of the room. So I go and join three Chinese people who were also questioned at length and it is about now that I finally realize that this is like on T.V. Only it’s real. It actually happens. And I might not actually be allowed into the country! Jeeebus!

So I sit for like 20 minutes, watching her talk with all these officials and security guys. I’m just blown away at this point. I’ve just come through 6 European countries without a passport needing to be shown and now this! So I get out my friend’s numbers in case that will help sway her and then I look up to see her approaching.

“Ok”, she says, “We’re gonna let you in but next time don’t mention anything about working anywhere. Ok?”
“Um, ok? Laters”

Then I was through and off to find my ‘3 day, “oh” Laos girl friend’.