Food

Weight loss – simply the BEST

February 25, 2020 by Mo Fanning 1 Comment

Have you ever stumbled upon a magazine called ‘Best’? You’ll find it in every low-grade supermarket next to the crossword puzzle books. They’re designed to sharpen the mind. ‘Best’ sets out to ruin it.

Reading ‘Best’ is like having your nasty aunty Pat round for tea. It’s sixty pages of fat-shaming, miracle diets and Meghan Markle bitchery, interspersed with motivational stories of women who lost weight by eating tar. Two dry heaves and a dizzy turn later, they’d lost a pound. There’s a problem page. Written by Vanessa Feltz. Who in their right mind takes advice from Vanessa Feltz?

‘Best’ is addictive. I have two settings. Worried for the world and craving cheese, and yet ‘Best’ has me convinced I’ll lose ten pounds in ten days by committing to their good sleep diet. You swig half a pint of Night Nurse before each meal. By the time desert arrives, you’re face-down in a plate of spaghetti.

Most mornings, the man in my mirror looks like something the dog slept on. My body isn’t a temple. It’s a phone … on emergency battery.

Lose weight … change everything

I know I should change my diet. Healthy eating involves more than an ability to refuse doughnuts. We’re talking serious lifestyle changes. Much as I’d like to fit 32-inch jeans, I’m not getting up two hours early each morning to turn a head of cauliflower into couscous for an exciting weekday supper.

I refuse to follow any diet plan where breakfast is two almonds and you get to lick an apple for lunch. You skip dinner to cry at photos of yourself aged 17 in Speedos.

I’ve tried a Fitbit. It was like having the bitchiest of gay best friends on my wrist. Most days, I spend my time counting down the hours until I’m allowed to eat again.

Meditation appealed. I loved being able to call lying down a lifestyle choice. I downloaded a class and put it on, before promptly falling asleep. At three in the morning, I woke starving and ate a whole bag of oven chips. Still frozen.

I’ve become an organ donor. It’s one way to make sure I get to wear slim-fit coffin jeans.

Whatever ‘Best’ wants me or its target market readers to believe, dealing with grief is hard when I can’t even drown my feelings in food.

A short break in France

September 30, 2009 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

What a close-to-perfect week the Fanning clan had in a remote French farmhouse, miles from the nearest shops with no Internet, no phones and no English language TV – we watched the French version of Wheel of Fortune twice and didn’t quite get why a small white dog was part of the proceedings.

The only down point involved driving. I’m not a natural behind the wheel and so, negotiating the streets of Amsterdam in the first torrential downpour for months took my stress to whole new levels. Had someone the foresight to attach crocodile clips to my ears, I could have saved the city of Amsterdam money and powered the street lights.

Mr Fanning did his best to navigate from the hire car shop to our street, making calming noises and trying not to flinch each time I came within a hair’s breadth of a parked car or oncoming cyclist. We parked up – five minutes walk from our front door – I absolutely refused to ‘go round again, just to see if there was anywhere better’.

En route to remote France, I managed to do the usual getting lost around Antwerp thing. Never ever trust Belgian road signs that suggest time-saving diversions. We were routed through grim industrial estates and miserable satellite towns before arriving at the entrance to an expensive toll tunnel.

Road trip

And why are the roads in Belgium so terrible? We’d no sooner left Holland than the surface broke up and turned bumpy. Single lanes and crawling jams blighted our passage through this God-forsaken chunk of Europe.

After a holiday two years back in an Ardennes village of the damned and subsequent train journey through hell-hole stations en route to Paris, I’m convinced it’s not a country I’d ever care to visit again.

So road trip aside, Mr Fanning and I enjoyed a perfect seven days. The cottage we first rented three years ago hadn’t changed much and felt like home almost immediately. The sun had its hat on and we walked for miles; taking the dog up narrow paths past cows, fields and not much else.

Mr Fanning had his new camera and got terribly artistic, prompting a strange competitive edge. Every now and then, I’d demand control of his all-new all-singing and dancing Cannon something-or-other and try to better his shots. Barbed wire became a feature – as did cows. After every walk, we’d rush back to the cottage to download the images and decide who’d done best.

And we ate. Loads. Twice at my absolute favourite place in the whole world – Le Ferme des Chartroux. Everyone there is so lovely and they pile the plates high. Mr Fanning and I are still not entirely sure you’re actually meant to empty the entire tureen of soup they put on your table before the starters arrive. Nobody said anything, but I swear looks were exchanged when the waitress took away the bread basket to refill it a second time.

Suffice to say we left groaning to totter down a 1km unlit road insisting we’d never eat that much again – until the next time. Seriously, if you are ever in the area, do try it out. I’m not on commission.

Back to Dam Life

Then it was back to Amsterdam. And after seven days of peace, it all seemed so loud, so dirty and so stressful. I’d turned from road rage driver to laid back motorist. This changed very quickly. Within ten minutes, I’d sworn at some hapless soul in a cheesecloth shirt riding his bike up a narrow pavement with a piano on the parcel shelf and his brains on vacation. (I might have made up the bit about the piano bit, but he looked the sort.)

As I write this, the skies are back to grey and ‘Strictly’ clogs up Saturday evening TV. And I already miss the sunshine. I knew when I signed on for Dutch life that 60% of the year, the skies would be heavy and white – it’s not so very different from the UK – but the flat landscape and lack of any space is making me hanker for pastures new.

Write On

And so what about the writing?

One good thing about living in a country where indoor life rules is I have time to plot.

With a sigh of relief, I finally finished revamping an old story; bringing it up to date, with new twists and chopping a good 20,000 words in the process of simplifying the plot. Already one of the recipients has made happy sounds, although right now, it’s tough to break into the market. Few publishing houses seem able to take a punt on an unknown.

Still, it was fun to write and I finally think I’ve lain to rest the story of Faith and Pearl after six endings and I dread to think how many drafts. The 78,000+ surviving words are hewn from at least 300,000. Along the way, characters have been culled and new ones written in. One went from potential romantic lead to outrageously camp flirt. In the end, the story picked up a supernatural edge and put to rest loads of things that have floated through my head for some time.

And already I’m plotting anew. There are two ideas bubbling on the back of my story stove. One revolves around a gay wedding and the quest for talent show fame. The other is a cautionary tale of online dating.

Best Rant

Time for my rant. I know language is a living thing, but when did ‘best’ become a verb – as in ‘the sales of his new album bested those of …’?

Is this just an American thing or is it how da kids is speaking, innit?

I probably need to know because the story I’m leaning towards includes a particularly sassy wedding planner hailing from Chicago. She’ll be feisty, fierce, fearless, frank and all sorts of other words beginning with f.

And she’ll best everyone to land the job of rescuing a calamitous gay wedding.

Now I get it. It’s all about context.

A RIPE Meeting diary

May 30, 2008 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Every now and then, my job takes me away from home for a week at a time. They put me up in fine hotels and pay for my food and drink. It sounds terribly glamorous and like I’m getting a bit full of myself. Trust me, it’s nothing to shout about. But, it would seem like a perfectly good subject to write home about – or blog. So here we go.

This time, I’m in Berlin. A city filled with many things that are symbols of the futility etc of war, though everyone seems to go out of their way to ever mention it. Contractual obligations forbid me naming the meeting, but suffice it to say, it is technical in nature and attracts the sort of people usually to be found lurking behind an open server panel. Yep, home of the geeks.

I’ll be blogging as often as time permits, usually early morning when I’m half awake, so forgive the sentence structure and lack of salient thought.

MONDAY

I slept like a rock, unfortunately a rock rolling down a very steep hill – in a very warm room. The airco taunted me, ‘your room is 26 degrees,’ it laughed, ‘now try turning it down and I’ll make it even warmer.’ I eventually tried opening the window. As I’m on the third floor, it’s partially welded shut, allowing half an inch of fresh air. Enough to let in the full effect of the main road below my window. So not only was I hot and sticky, but every time I was in danger of nodding off, I’d be awoken by a police siren or a bunch of Irish girls on a hen night, singing their way home.

Today is a busy day, we’ll see how I cope. But let’s go back a few steps and talk about my journey here. I’m just about over the trauma, though not sure I’ll ever feel clean again.

Of course, I didn’t get my requested seat near the power point, in fact I was as far away from it as it was possible to get. I’ve come to expect this though, so no biggie. I need not have worried though, for entertainment was on hand in the shape of two new-agey German types who shared my cabin. At first, I took them to be two average everyday Joes, no outward signs of fuckwittery, no wind chimes, no scent of patchouli oil, nothing. But within seconds, she had her shoes off and was sitting cross-legged on the seat chanting. I put my iPOD on and flicked through HEAT. Next time I looked up, he had his shirt half way up his back and she was giving him a back massage. He let out moans I can only describe as sensual,

I paused the music and listened as she ‘whispered’ sweet nuthens into his ears. It was probably her accent and the fact I’d already taken agin them, but it sounded like she was suggesting they combine their powers and annex Poland..

The massage over, they continued to fondle each other, eventually breaking open lunch and feeding each other strawberries until we reached Hilversum (only the first stop, only twenty minutes along, it felt like an age), when a cheery Dutch family joined us and put paid to their shenanigans.

Today, I’ve stuffed my face with a selection of fresh fruit and toast in preparation for the morning where I’ve schmoozed the crowd with the best of them, bagging myself two meeting virgins and interrogating them about what they thought of the meeting. One of them slinked away and hid behind a coat stand.

Lunch today was a massive step up from the crud in undermined sauce offered for our last overseas meeting in Tallinn. I bagged another ‘newbie’ and made him talk to me throughout the meal. He eventually made an excuse about needing to make phone calls. Tonight we’re off to the Zoo to look at Hippos and sip sparkling wine … more later.

TUESDAY

It’s official, I like Hippos. I don’t care if they’re one of the grumpiest and scariest creatures on earth, prone to maul and play with their prey rather than outright kill it – then again don’t cats do that with mice/birds/spiders? And you never hear of them getting such bad press.

Went to a drinks reception at the local zoo where feeding time in the Hippo enclosure was the highlight. Now I know on paper (or screen) this probably isn’t setting anyone on fire, but you had to be there. Good food, lots of beer, entertaining lumbering beasts with halitosis and dreadful table manners (and that was just the people, ba-da-boom). On from there to another ‘welcome reception’ and then a probably ill-thought-out few drinks in the hotel bar – staying there until the lights came on and we were ushered off into the night. ‘You’ve got work tomorrow, off you go,‘ said the solitary barman sent to shoo us away. There was talk of finding somewhere else to drink. Thankfully my survival instincts kicked in and autopilot put me to bed.

So that was last night, this is today. Plus ca change. More of the same and probably not what anyone wants to read about, so let’s get to the more interesting stuff. Lunch. Tried sitting at a big round table with geeks to chat – or ‘mingle’ as we in the trade call it. They refused to talk to me or my colleague and huddled in closer, whispering things about parallel networks (see boys, I could hear!). Food was uninspiring, tending to look far better than it tasted. But me and colleague agreed on one thing, the apple juice was nice. Well two actually if you count the fact that geek boys don’t do talking to girls or gays very well.

Skipped the big party on the 20th floor of an office block with dancing until 2am, as I know my self control is shocking and I’d have been there until the bitter end. I’m up on the microphone today for an hour or two, so I’d rather be in good nick. Fell asleep at eleven without even catching up on Eastenders. Will Pat live? Now I’ll not know for a night or two. I’m putting money on her wobbling back to this mortal coil though. (note for people with a life, Eastenders is a UK soap opera).

Today’s general whine, the room is still too hot and I’m getting ticked off with the constant tapping at the door to turn down my bed/service my mini bar/offer me fresh towels (what do they imagine I’m doing in here with them?). Woke up today with skin like the Singing Detective thanks to the air co, that seems unable to cool the room, but make a top notch job of sucking every droplet of moisture from the air. OK, I’m done, more soon.

WEDNESDAY

I’m up and moving, had an early breakfast, not a single delegate in sight. Two Americans in software vendor baseball caps being v. annoying though. Chatting to everyone in loud voices, trying to engage clearly disinterested cooking staff in banter. Think one of them told him to fuck off in German with a grin on face to hide what she was saying. I like her, she’s my favourite staff member. I wonder if they do one of those shitty ‘help us select the best employee’ schemes here?

So Wednesday came and went, a busy day all round, then it was time for the evening social. BBQ and Cocktails. Both of which were entirely great. Though the BBQ failed to feel authentic, because although all of the people cooking were men – with women scurrying around doing all the hard work – there wasn’t a piece of blood-oozing undercooked chicken to be found and no sausages dropped on the floor. I snuck off just after nine (and three big fruity cocktails) to have a bath and early night.

This bath thing is becoming a bit of a compulsion. Not having one at home, whenever I get away to a place with one, it’s hard to get me out. I’m aiming at four or five a day, which I know would have my mother throwing her hands up in horror and muttering nonsense about washing all of the oils out of my skin or something.

Slept like a baby, having realised it’s the rubber sheets on the beds that are causing me the most discomfort. It’s a five fucking star hotel, why are there rubber sheets? I was given a tip to put a duvet under me and one over me, then create a nest of pillows. It works, Susannah Gray is officially my hero.

THURSDAY

It was another day of talking technical with people who most likely thought I knew what they were on about, but I suppose my last lunch at the Hotel Palace is of far more interest to you, dear reader. All I know is that there was salmon, lots of it. I possibly overloaded on it and am helping keep some small fishery in business single-handed. Considering that a year or two ago I used to give it a wide birth after overdosing in my youth, I probably ought to calm it for a while.

The day dragged on, I did some shopping and noted that German men have far less inhibitions when it comes to trying on clothes. I spotted several just whipping their shirts off and trying stuff on in the middle of stores. In some cases, this wasn’t wise, but in others – well, you can’t help but look, now can you?

The evening came and the infamous RIPE Dinner, about which, I can say very little. Mainly on the grounds I was banjoed on champagne and decent white wine – I suspect salmon was consumed in much quantity (it’s just soooo Berlin) and I have the horrible feeling there was dancing. Never wise considering I look like a weeble when dragged onto any dance floor. Given I had a broken toe which is now black and blue, I think it happened.

and home on Friday, not a minute too soon, to sleep, sleep, sleep. Until the next time.

Oh and I think I shared the train with someone big in Dutch showbiz – 60 years old, skin like badly crumpled orange leather, sixteen year old nymphet on his shoulder, barely able to spell her own name. He kept gurning at people as they got on in that ‘you know who I am, don’t you?’ way. Sadly though, ‘Big in Dutch Showbiz’ doesn’t cut it with me. He kept trying to watch Lily Savage over my shoulder on my laptop.

Oberhausen – it has it ALL

December 15, 2007 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Oberhausen is twinned with Middlesbrough. And before venturing there, that was the sum total of my knowledge.

But in December, I had the dubious pleasure of being invited along on a day out to a typical German Christmas market. I didn’t take much persuading, someone explained Glühwein, assured me it was nothing like the shocking atrocity we Brits call mulled wine and I was sold.

And why Oberhausen? Why not Cologne or Düsseldorf? Well in truth, it’s close to Amsterdam, just over an hour and a half. So with the weathermen predicting freezing rain off I set.

I met my fellow intrepid travellers at the ungodly hour of 07.50 in the wind tunnel that is Amsterdam central station, boarded the appropriately named ICE train and set off through the countryside through picturesque towns. After a while it all started to get a bit industrial, then a bit more industrial and then very industrial indeed, even the air was gray. And then the train stopped. We’d hit steel town.

Oberhausen has a tourist office, manned by polite though understandably embarrassed ladies who did their best to talk up their town’s main attraction – a disused gas silo. They even let us hold the surprisingly heavy cast iron models of the silo that they sold to passing day trippers. How we all laughed. They pointed us at a tram stop and handed out maps.

The place where it’s all at is a Teutonic Bluewater. A shopping centre surrounded by what looked like abandoned garden sheds. It was barely 10am, the good folk of Oberhausen were still in their beds, so we went in search of coffee and cake, settling instead for chicken soup and apple strudel at the Café Zurich. After an hour or so of aimless milling around the mall to stave off indigestion, it was time to get the full Weihnachtsmarkt Experience.

Stall after stall of the sort of seasonal tat your mother used to give to jumble sales mingled with places offering Glühwein and the type of huge sausages that only a German woman can eat without eliciting smutty comments. It took us around five minutes to give up on ‘World of Fudge’ and huddle under a makeshift shelter guzzling our first mug of hot wine.

After a second round of nog, spirits lifted. We all merrily admitted the place was a shit hole populated by web-footed, six-fingered inbred trolls.

It was time for lunch.

After eyeing up the variety of places on offer – you can eat your way around the world in Oberhausen – we settled on a Bavarian restraint, where men and women in lederhosen and frilly blouses bobbed efficiently between tables. The menu was simple, meat with meat and sauerkraut and meat. For the non meat eaters, there was sauerkraut without the meat. It was a monument to gout.

Eventually with heavy hearts, we bid farewell to Oberhausen to board the train back to Amsterdam.

All in all, we had a great day though. Once you revise your expectations and start to see the funny side of things, hell you can have fun in a cardboard box with a piece of straw.

As a celebration, here is my seasonal recipe for Glühwein – not one little bit like mulled wine, which we all know is wrong anyway – highly recommended.

1 bottle red wine
3 tbs sugar (more or less according to taste)
1 mug of water
1 lemon sliced
1 orange sliced
Juice of 1 orange
3 cloves
1 cinnamon stick

Heat the ingredients together in a pan, never letting them boil, keep on a low heat for an hour to allow the flavours to infuse, then strain and serve. Keep what you haven’t drunk hot for later.

RIPE for Tallinn

May 30, 2007 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Sorry for the lack of diary entries, been in a bit of a creative slump and didn’t have the spark to write much, busy dealing with the rejection letters from agents who you suspect haven’t even read your work – particular Kudos to the agency who shall remain nameless who said that thrillers were not really her genre – in response to my very obviously romantic comedy, and the other one who had their very junior assistant reply on their behalf that stories about serial killers were not really her thing – well I’m with her on that.

Still not one to be beaten, I’m pleased to say I’m ready to crack on with something new. I’ve shut ‘Help’ away in a drawer to cool off for a few months before I come back and have another rewrite. Then it should be what I want it to be. Or not, in which case it will never see the light of day.

Right now I’m bored with it, so my enthusiasm of marketing it to anyone else is zero. My next idea is all fired up, I’ve made tons of character notes, filled a spiral bound notepad with quotes and ideas, I might just be ready to write a few words. Just can’t decide where to start it, right now under a trestle table at a New Year’s Eve party while all around do the conga seems most likely – nothing like a moment of true despair to kick off a Mo Fanning story now is there?

So this month, I was kept busy preparing for, attending and clearing up after a week-long conference in Estonia – a week long event where men with beards, sandals and penchant for free T-shirts gather with other men with beards, sandals and a love of free T-shirts to check their e-mail, surf the web, get inadvisably drunk on free booze and blush when a lady speaks to them. Oh and a few of them actually do something vaguely work-related, but they are very much in the absolute minority and could probably all fit into a small room. This year we went to Estonia – once peaceful and very much at the vanguard of Eastern European expansion into the EU, in the recent weeks the country has been torn by riots after some government official decided to upset Mother Russia by shifting a Soviet war memorial to a military cemetery without asking permission. Anyway, on we go…

Sunday 6 May

I had been dreading the trip to Tallinn. I can’t lie, it was the last place on earth I wanted to be. I’d toyed with contracting something fairly life-threatening to get out of it – nothing like TB or Meningitis you understand – a nasty cough that might turn chesty would do. There seemed to be nothing doing. I was coughing and sneezing like a good ‘un, but everyone put it down to the inordinate pollen problem caused by the freak hot weather in Amsterdam. I believed them eventually.

When first I came to check in online for my flight to Tallinn (hereafter to be known as riot-torn Tallinn, according to popular news parlance), I was struck by just how small the plane on offer appeared, just 17 rows of seats. Anxiously I began to Google ‘Fokker 70’ to set my mind at rest that it had jet engines, affording it a better than 50% chance of making it to my destination. It appeared to have two, so imagine my general state of fear, fret and all round mither when on the way to the airport in a taxi with two colleagues, one remarked that it might be one of those olde worlde propeller planes, the sort you often hear about crashing in remote parts of Eastern Europe – or just outside riot-torn Tallinn as my inner monologue was already suggesting.

Check-in was yet another example of stunning Dutch efficiency and award-winning customer service. After shuffling slowly towards the front of a ‘baggage drop queue’ (we checked in online, it is supposed to be quicker, it isn’t), the check in assistant allowed me to present my passport before informing me that this desk was now closed.

Like any right-thinking person I was miffed and enquired why she hadn’t thought to tell us she planned to close the desk when we joined the queue, those behind me mumbled their general agreement that this was really quite a poor show, “I am sorry I forgot’ she announced with a smile that suggested she wasn’t particularly sorry at all. To me, this came over as possibly one of the weakest and quite frankly most shite excuses I have heard in some time. It ranks alongside the dog eating homework or leaves on the line. ‘Thank you for flying KLM, now Fuck Off’ she appeared to be saying. I took ‘agin’ her.

I counted first to ten, then twenty and by the time I reached thirty six, I had decided to let it go. To be honest I’ve been starting to worry that I’m getting a bit ‘old git-ish’ of late – what with my apparently unreasonable expectations of being treated with slightly more respect than that normally afforded to a bowl of boiled cat vomit, so we joined another slow shuffling queue and eventually reached the desk, checked in and were assigned a gate. ‘It is a bus gate,’ the girl behind the counter said meaningfully and drew circles around the times on our passes. Clearly the bus was leaving on time, with or without me.

We boarded, it was the tiniest plane possible and packed to the gills with remarkably plain-looking folk. The ‘gorgeous gene’ is clearly not a part of the Estonian make-up. I fully expected to be sat next to the obligatory fat bloke with a personal hygiene issue and no boundaries when it comes to making conversation. For once, I lucked out and two normal looking people with normal sized hold luggage and no unusual twitches sat beside me. Then I spotted him, bouncing down the aisle, family in tow, florid of complexion, the plane was visibly bouncing in time with his footsteps. He took the seat right in front of me, allowing him to spend the entire flight reclining his seat, returning it to upright position, reclining his seat, leaning round to talk to wifey (behind me) and generally behaving like he had some sort of embarrassing anal itch that precluded just sitting still. It was lovely. I adore air travel.

We reached Tallinn in plenty of time and joined another queue for passport control. This was quaint, after showing your passport to a rather stern looking woman in the sort of military issue green shirt you can still find in provincial branches of Millets, you have to open a cheap looking wooden door and cross the line and into Estonia, where your bags are awaiting you in a heap.

On to the hotel and it was surprisingly spacious in an Eastern European way. The carpets in the entrance had seen better days and suffered from a few fag burns and bits of gum trodden in, but overall it was efficient, if a little like the sort of thing you used to see Cliff Michelmore or Anne Gregg wondering around on the BBC Holiday show back in the 70s and 80s.

And so to bed, I’ll fill you in on the room tomorrow. Got the nasty chesty cough I hoped for, twenty-four hours too late.

Monday 7 May

The meeting kicked off today and so at 8am, after just three hours of fitful sleep in a room that was just a little bit warm (actually it was horribly hot), I decided to brave breakfast. It was one of those spread out affairs that you can’t help feeling they do to prevent anyone from making the most of it. Usually by the third day I’ve worked out where all the stuff I like is, too late to actually make the most of it. I had a bit of scrambled egg on toast, it was .. well scrambled egg on toast to be honest.

Afterwards I returned to my room and used Skype to chat with Mark for a good thirty minutes, taking full advantage of the video phone facility to give a tour of the room. Again it is all a bit like that 80s sitcom ‘Duty Free’, but given we are in riot-torn Tallinn, it is perfectly adequate.

Lunch was a bit dismal, big glasses of luke-warm tap water and a few off looking chicken or fish dishes, a bit of salad and not much else. Quite the worst tucker I’ve ever known at a RIPE Meeting to be blunt. But what the heck, it filled a hole and now I’m off to snap some lovely pics of the old town and see if I can’t join a looting mob and bag a few things to flog on e-bay when I get back.

Afternoon Delight

Tallinn actually is a really pretty town. I really hesitate to say city, it has the same sort of vibe that my home town Stourbridge still has – though obviously far less run-down charity shops. In parts of the old town, you can see a few signs of the recent unrest with broken and boarded-up windows. Someone, somewhere is a dab hand with gaffa tape. I spent an hour or so walking around the streets and getting some air. It was not a busy day, a few walking tours of white-haired Americans, all looking a bit antsy with one hand on their mace sprays, the other on their cameras. I took a few snaps of the streets…

As I walked around, I learned two new things today about Tallinn. Many of the younger women here like to dress like they work for ‘Eastern European Whores ‘R’ Us’ – very short skirts, skimpy blouses with the sleeves obviously hacked off with their mums’ kitchen scissors and ‘chase me, fuck me’ heels. It’s all a bit last century. Also the pedestrian crossings are very scary. You stand there patiently while a steady beep sounds, warning you not to cross. It sounds like one of those life-support machines you often hear in an episode of ‘Casualty’ or the like. Then when it is time to cross, the beep stops and turns into one continuous tone, a bit like when someone flat-lines. I wanted to hear someone who I vaguely recognise from ‘Eastenders’ shout ‘stand clear’ – they didn’t.

Tonight there is a social event that is a welcome party. I will quote from the flyer, as I don’t think I could improve on it.

“..a unique Estonian party… a showcase of Estonian culture…The reception will commence with the blowing of a shepherd’s horn and a traditional ‘welcoming shot’…This will be followed by a display of traditional Estonian music on unique folk instruments, traditional ‘spectacles’ including pantomime and feats of strength and finally a ‘sabantants’ or ‘tail dance’.”

You can’t imagine the sense of dread this gives me. I am hoping that the ‘tail dance’ is a Baltic version of the Conga, I’ll report back, if I haven’t run for fear of my life and escaped the cultural overdose they plan to cram into a few hours. Whatever happened to a few glasses of wine and some cheese and pineapple on sticks? Still I am intrigued to see someone blow a shepherd’s horn.

Hi Di Hi

I lasted ten minutes at most, just long enough to choke back half a glass of cheap fizzy wine. I had barely sipped my drink when a loud hairy Estonian bloke grabbed the mike and started doing his best Ted Bovis impersonations, imploring us all to come closer and take our seats as it was show time. He did a bit of patter about how Estonian women are fat and how they all like to eat big pieces of meat (the ‘Carry On’ potential was huge throughout) and then announced that the show was to be one that embraced both Estonian culture and audience participation. He began by asking various skinny geeks if they could eat big pieces of meat (it seemed to be a theme). He introduced us to his lovely assistant, who looked like she might be called Olga or Helga or Danuta or something equally Eastern European. Ted insisted that she was ‘little fat woman’, (I think he meant thin, but you never know, her costume was very forgiving, I might get one). I put down my glass, made excuses and while others went to find tables, scarpered.

This was my idea of hell and I really did think that as I was suffering from the sort of sleep deprivation that had me in the mood to bite the heads off small children, it might be best if I left. I grabbed my coat and took a long stroll around the block, eventually settling on a taste of home – Macdonalds – to take back to my room where I could shower, stuff my face and spend the evening not having to talk to another living soul. Coughing alot and know this is changing into a chest infection – deep joy.

I learned something else about Estonia tonight. Their humour just isn’t particularly humourous and their food colouring laws are far more relaxed than in the EU. Here you’ll see the rather bewitching colour of Estonian Fanta. Packed full of the sort of additives that scream ‘Doctor, I fear my son/daughter may be hyperactive’. I wonder what colour I’ll pee tomorrow.

Goodnight, God Bless

If Morning has to break, Could it do so quietly?

I fell asleep a bit after ten and didn’t wake until seven. I feel so much better today, although troubled what feels like a sore throat coming on. I’d suck on a Fisherman’s Friend if I had one to hand, (keeping the ‘Carry On’ theme going from last night), but I only have Strepsils, so that will do. I blame the airco. After working out why my room was like a sauna, I’ve got it cracked. The under floor heating in the bathroom is to blame, by just shutting the door to the en-suite, I can transform my room into something more sub-polar, far nicer to sleep in, but a bit ‘dry’. An opening window would have been nice, but you can’t have it all.

It rained last night … lots – and sitting in the reception area today, I find one other thing happened alot last night – drinking. I’ve seen so many people nursing very sore heads already and heard whispered explanations of getting to bed at four. And this is only Tuesday. We are very much split into two camps today. The damaged souls and the smug bastards (like me) who took to their beds early. I’ve had my regulation plate of scrambled egg and greasy bacon, washed down with sludgy coffee and radio-active orange juice, so I’m ready to face the day. The somewhat loud background music in the meeting area yesterday was 1970s sitcom/lift musak, today we have monks chanting. It’s all good.

After a busy morning and the by no all too tiresome clashes with technology (poor connectivity, badly configured laptops and other reasons to make me hate my mac powerbook), I decided to take a break and go shopping. Susannah cried off feeling a bit sickly tired – possibly the after effects of another shockingly bad lunch (the same as yesterday, they just rotated the sauces – the fish was in tomato, the chicken in a tin of mushroom soup etc). So I made my own sweet way through the shopping mall attached to the hotel and bagged a really nice shirt for just over ten euros. Afterwards I went into the old town. What difference ten hours sleep makes. Yesterday it all seemed quaint but dull and lacking any charm. Today it was beautiful, atmospheric and packed with gorgeous little galleries and shops selling original works. I bought a thick blue glass vase from Luhikese Jala Galerii. It was a small gallery/store packed with original works of Estonian art. Glass, ceramics and textiles. I stumbled upon a stunning photography exhibition at the Russian Gallery of work by Alexander Zabrin. Really moody stuff taken when he spent time with the famous artist Vladimir Yakovlev during his last years spent in a mental asylum, known as the ‘house of grief’. Afterwards, I sat at a small coffee house looking over the square and relaxed for an hour with my book – a bit Englishman abroad, but so what!

So now I’m getting ready for the evening social – hopefully less audience participation, some decent food (its only been two days, but my body is craving a vegetable that hasn’t been cooked until it screams for mercy).

People are People

To my surprise this was a great social! It didn’t bode well though when we were almost arrested under suspicion of starting a riot.

Two hundred or so people gathered in the 1970s inspired lobby of the Sokos Viru for the walk though the old town to the venue. We followed our guide (who looked about 12) through the cobbled streets of Tallinn to a square where we were instructed to mill around aimlessly. The venue was expecting us at seven, it was only quarter to. I glibly remarked that any tourists sitting eating dinner in the many venues around the square would most likely be uneasy to see a crowd gathering, even a fairly mild-mannered crowd. It was then that we spotted around twenty worried looking policemen in flak jackets approaching. Following the recent riots, there is actually a bit of a ban on large groups gathering in the city. Our host, who seemed fairly clued up for someone who should really be at home doing his maths homework, quickly suggested a walking tour of old Tallinn and whisked everyone away. Police looked both relieved and yet oddly disappointed. I think they fancied a bit of geek bashing myself.

Anyhow, we got in eventually and there was no messing around, dinner was very quickly served, a really quite decent buffet that mad a massive change from the slops being offered by our hotel. Everyone dived on it, fearing this might be the only edible food they saw this week. Wine, beer and very orange Fanta flowed. There was unobtrusive music and everyone had a gay old time. No moronic intrusive entertainment. This was how a social event should be run.

Everyone was still very much still in the mood to party as the event ended at nine and the waiters picked up their coats and made a point of leaving, so we went off to a bar. Now I’ve been around the world, ay ay ay, as Lisa Stansfield might say, but I’ve never been to a Depeche Mode tribute bar. It plays only Depeche Mode music, it plays only Depeche Mode videos and is decorated like the toilets in a student union bar. It smelled much like that too. Beers flowed and it all started to get a bit messy. I left with a large group of defectors after a few too many and staggered back to the hotel. I was just little bit merry and recall eating the disgusting ‘local’ chocolate from the mini-bar. For the second night running, nobody has put a boiled sweet on my pillow. This place is going to hell in a hand basket, if you ask me.

And so onto the Google Party. Everyone was massively excited about this event. Google, after all, have money and surely any party with their name tagged on is going to be great.

A last minute change of venue forced upon us by the possibility of a riot in downtown Tallinn (we were bumped to the coast) meant buses. Heady with the anticipation of a great buffet – there were rumours that Google had flown in their own chef from the US of A – and a completely open bar, we began fighting to see who could make the first bus.

We were whisked through several unremarkable suburbs, but that didn’t quell our enthusiasm. We arrived eventually at a building that looked like a British primary school perched atop loose chippings. The sort of thing you’d expect to see in Telford. This surely wasn’t the place where we would be exposed to the very best on offer from the Internet’s premiere search engine. A woman appeared and called us in. This was indeed the place.

We trooped into an atmosphere-lacking glass sided portakabin with ambitions to face a fairly unimpressive buffet laid out on tables and the same cans of local beer and wine as we saw last night. Where was the welcome drink, time to settle in before the food arrived? This really did feel like a major let-down. There was worse to come, the buffet took fish as its central theme, cheap fish. After several near misses with food poisoning in the past, I avoid seafood at these sort of events like the plague, especially if I’m at the back of a queue of people who look like thy don’t wash their hands after going to the toilet and who cough and sneeze their way past the food. So I managed a few lettuce leaves and a bit of coleslaw. Lovely. Google organised a quiz, with big prizes – or so they claimed – coincidentally they forgot to bring them, though there was space on the entry form to fill out all of your details (including your special interests, e-mail address, home address, blood group and stuff like that, the sort of stuff they absolutely needed to send you a lava lamp or whatever branded shite it was they were offering as prizes). Most people saw through this and refused to enter the quiz/scam. the questions were remarkably obscure and horribly smug – what is Google’s AS Number?, network code names from the 80s and geeky in-jokes, questions about landlocked countries in Africa, – stuff like that. Prizes were awarded, nobody bothered to read out the answers. To be blunt, I don’t know if anyone really cared.

And then there was the cabaret! Jaw droppingly bad once again. Scantily clad dancing girls (an a few boys) that hot-hoofered their way through a few songs. This being Estonia, the crowd being Internet Boffins, the place being brightly lit and drenched in late evening sunlight giving it all the atmosphere and charm of a used Skoda, what would be the ideal theme? That’s right, Berlin Cabaret. Possibly some people liked it, maybe I was just in a bit of a grumpy mood, but it really did make my flesh crawl.

Once again, our hosts completely misjudged the audience. The fact the place was mostly made of glass meant it was sweaty and hot – everyone was blinded by the setting sun and had to look only in one direction to avoid the onset of a migraine. Two glasses of red wine later and the booze ran out, a good hour or so before the event was due to end. So when the first coach arrived at nine, there was a mad rush. Many people came back disappointed – the bus was full – sensing we could all turn nasty and start moaning, plans were made to ply us with more wine while the next bus was brought forward. I’ve been to better social events at RIPE Meetings.

Back at the hotel, a crowd of people headed for Bogart’s Karaoke Bar. There was a breakaway gang that wanted more of Depeche Mode. I was torn. Eventually a nice cup of tea won and I made some excuse about putting my coat in my room and legged it.

So far, riot-torn Tallinn is looking a bit like ‘dead as a doornail at night’ Tallinn. Am very hungry.

Forgot to mention, we are dead famous here, there are RIPE flags outside the hotel.

Thursday 10 May

Riot-torn Tallinn enjoyed the quietest May 9 in history I’ve just read. The fact the place was over-run by flak-jacket wearing policemen and mostly sealed off from anyone probably helped. There were no clashes between ethnic Russians and Estonians. I slept well.

I am thrilled that it is almost over. I haven’t really enjoyed this meeting as much as usual – in case you can’t tell – though having a chest infection and sore throat isn’t helping, I just seem to spend the whole tim feeling exhausted. But enough of me.

Breakfast is continuing to unimpress. The scrambled egg is getting more solid, the bacon more burnt and yet managing to stay chewy, the toast machine is slowly giving up. I think i might just go out for coffee and stuff tomorrow. Quite a few people are already skipping lunch and eating at places near the hotel – these are wise people, I plan to become one of them today, since I’ve already seen the lunch menu, it is a repeat of Monday’ culinary trial. Today is a busy day for me, so no more strolls around Tallinn – though I honestly think I’ve seen all there is to see. It is pretty in a postcard sort of way, but after you’ve seen one row of pastel coloured houses and an inspiring erection towering above, you’ve seen them all – sorry I had another ‘Carry On’ moment.

I’m now coughing like someone who smokes twenty Park Drive before breakfast. I’ll not trouble you with the colour, but I’m sure Dulux market it as Mossy Glen or something poetic like that.

After a busy day, I got myself ready for the RIPE DInner. A chance for the beardy sandal-wearers to don a clean freebie T-shirt and drink even more cheap vodka before blushing once again at ladies. As always at these sort of events, there was a split between the few people who made an effort to dress up (mainly women, but a few meeting virgins too) and those who seemed content to stick with whatever they’d had on since the last RIPE Dinner six months earlier. I hope I fell somewhere between this. I’d tried a white shirt and new jumper over it, but in the tropical heat of my room, it made me melt, so I’d switched back to a shirt on its own. I had ironed it, settings me somewhat apart from the raggedy bundles I saw waiting for the organisers to send us on our way in the hotel lobby.

A stroll through the old town, now no longer seeming like riot-torn Tallinn and we arrived at the venue – the Blackheads Guild – it sounded like a skin care institution devised by L’Oreal, it wasn’t. It was, in fact, a really charming venue, deceptively huge. We were greeted by a guitarist and a glass of fizz and made a rush for a table, trying to mingle with others, but as soon as a few of us sat at a table, they scarpered away. We had a lady with us, that might have been the reason. Let the evening begin.

For some reason, we were subjected to a twenty minute lecture by a white-haired old duffer who looked like Ken Russell about the history of the guild and Tallinn and probably estonia. I say probably because he had a heavy accent and the acoustics in the room made it impossible to hear a thing he said. After three minutes, everyone gave up and let him ramble on, while we noisily chattered amongst ourselves, drowning him out. He was not to be stopped though, he had been booked to do twenty minutes, he was going to do twenty minutes. When he ended, everyone cheered loudly, displayed a hitherto evil side to our collective natures. he didn’t seem particularly bothered, I think he was deaf.

Dinner was served and for once, it was really quite acceptable. Not up to the standards of other places, but really not that bad. The waiters kept the wine and vodka coming, so most of us stopped noticing. There was plenty of it, though why do they always use those tiny side plates at these events? Is it to stop you getting enough in one visit? People at my table took this as a challenge – these are the sort of people you don’t want to be behind at an ‘all you can eat’ salad bar.

The entertainment continued with a bit of choreographed sword-fighting and then it was time for renaissance music. A trio of misfits shuffled onto the stage. One bloke in a sack with skinny ankles and a sort of tambourine thing , a young girl who looked a bit like Squiggle off Eastenders in a velvet evening frock with huge leg-of-mutton sleeves playing a white violin affair and some bird who looked like she might be the leader of the pack. A most unfortunate-looking lady with eyes as far apart of Red Rum, one of which looked east, while the other looked west. She did however exude smugness and was carrying a musical instrument that looked like the sort of thing a ten-year old might knock up in woodwork. My colleague described them as an ugly version of the Corrs. They did a twenty-minute set, outstaying their welcome by around nineteen by which time, everyone was straining at the bit for a bit of trashy 70s disco music – Dancing Queen, YMCA, It’s Raining Men, all the classics.

This was when I felt it best to just leave. After chatting with a few folk in the hallways and highways of the Blackheads build, I escaped to the hotel at ten to watch a bit of Eurovision and relax. I was feeling really exhausted and chesty.

Breakfast was very sparsely attended the next morning. I didn’t see a soul that I recognised. I packed and after bumming around for the morning, hopped into a minibus back to the airport, though the door out of Estonia and onto the Fokker 70 back to Amsterdam.

Christ! But I’m tired and like all badly timed chest infections, I’m starting to feel much better now.