Human Flesh is Porky Meat (Hee Hee Hee Hee)

Under The Skin, US poster, 2014

I'm not one for hype. I'm not one for opening day screenings. And I'm on holiday, so I'm not really one for getting out of bed. Despite that, I've been waiting several months now for the release of Under The Skin. The Guardian has until recently been choked (non-erotically) with articles about Lars Von Trier's magnus trollus Nymphomaniac to the expense of every other film. With that finally out of the way I saw the low-key promotion for Under The Skin begin in the run-up to a March 14th general release. Still, why so interested? Well, my interest was piqued over two years ago when I heard parts of the film were being shot in the area. And, most obviously and honestly, it's Scarlett Johansson. Not that I would see any old tripe just cause she's in it. Undeniably, though, she is a sex symbol - and I don't say that often. I once got into a minor brawl with a friend at the age of thirteen when I dared to suggest Britney Spears was unattractive. I was engaged in a daydream two weeks ago about meeting Scarlett on set via certain connections, although I realised my connection didn't extend over that boundary line. Ahem. Nonetheless, I've always been into sci-fi cinema beyond the space-opera of Star Wars and what little I'd heard of the premise intrigued me.

Spoilers for Under The Skin inbound after several paragraphs of travelogue twaddle.

Sojourn I: London Calling to the Faraway Towns

Big Ben from the London eye, Prij, 2012

It's been a long time since I've gone away on holiday. Four whole years. When in May the opportunity arose to travel down to London for a few days in the near future I figured I should take it. After all, I end up sleeping through most of my time off work when I'd really like to be doing something. Plus it gives me something to write about and travel writing seems to be quite popular with whoever reads this blog. For some as yet undiscovered reason my outbound travelogue from 2006 is the most popular post on this blog with well over a hundred hits from South Korea. Personally I prefer the inbound post, but either way travel writing is something I enjoy doing in the vein of Round Ireland with a Fridge and if a post about me making eyes with a girl in an airport cafe can be the most popular post, then let me witter on for an easy few thousand.

Extrinsic 5: Cities, Buildings Falling Down, Ideal Homes Falling Down

My photostream "Cyprus"

One of the day tours on offer in Cyprus is a trip into the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC)- the highlight of which is the 'abandoned city' of Famagusta where we were told you could 'see' the long out-dated clothes on display in the shops. Or at least that's how it was sold. As I was in the last divided country in Europe; the chance of crossing through an armistice line into a place with its own zone of interdiction, like a tame North Korea, appealed to me.

I went on this trip on July 14th 2007 and intended to write a post the following day. For whatever reason, I didn't. I dug out the old notepad I had on holiday at the time and the entry for this consisted of the date, title, and a blank page. Here's what I would have written had I not scrapped the post two years ago...

As always these bloody trips require getting up at 0700 when the only thing on offer in the restaurant is fucking sandwiches. Our hotel was in Paphos which is conveniently on the wrong side of Cyprus. After a mind-numbing eternity on the motorway, during which we picked up our Greek Cypriot Guide, the bus eventually reached the Green Line which we followed to the Eastern Sovereign Base for the crossing into the North. The Green Line seemed to mostly consist of open field, warning notices and lookout posts. Our Southern guide mostly spent this time covertly denouncing the Ataturk, only to do a complete about-face on that topic when the Northern guide boarded at the checkpoint. As tourists in the South, you could be forgiven for slipping into the perception of the Turkish side as a muslim East Germany. Both guides had stories about how the invasion and division of the island had affected them and their families. Both hoped Cyprus could be reunited.

Ectal 6: Pulling out of Ricardo and the Dusk is Falling Fast

Cloudscape, Prij, 2008

Like previous holidays I've set off with a number of intentions. Usually this involves actually finishing a book, and always involves trying to turn fragmentary blog drafts into proper articles. Sometimes I get sidetracked with writing a travel-diary, rather than writing vignettes or observational insights.

This year I brought two books: The Lost World, and Neuromancer (yes, its second trip). I never started on either. Although I didn't finish the holdover installments of the GA-Slag, I did finish some non-diary pieces which precede this post. Probably because I've done nothing throughout this holiday - there are more photos of the journey than anything else. Really jettisoned all concerns. I briefly forgot I had a job.

Two weeks later, on the plane again. And for once I was on the scenic side. As we rose into the sky at 8, the Sun halted its descent, and Mt Teide began rising from 270km away. After an extra hour the Sun disappeared and the moon began its long fall, until at midnight only the gloaming was left.

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Ectal 1: Brownsville Turnaround on the Tex-Mex Border

Western Algarve, Prij, 2008

I meant to upload a holding page for the following posts if perchance you thought I was finished with the blog. I'm hoping to use these two weeks to work through my draft backlog - in particular a few short stories and the long overdue finalé of the old site.

Something is very uneventful about this holiday; the yearly flight, the usual destinations - such is travel once Gordo Cooper went higher and farther than any other. Faced with such humdrumity (surely a better pre-existing word for that) it's no wonder I haven't posted since April beyond little observations under my minimal 500 words quotient.

Extrinsic 1: Which is a Building, Which is on Fire

Venus Above Her Birthplace, Prij, 08/07/07 20:43 EEST

Having boarded and seen the leather seats, I was hoping the space between them might just have increased. If anything, they've crammed more into the same space. My brother points out that the brace position is difficult to adopt. As is sitting at a minutely different angle. I tried to see the bright side, Para.

As Glasgow is my local airport, I was expecting to see some damage from last week's incident. But there was nothing visible. However... increased security checks, and armed police, and the Kafkaesque nonsense going through the x-ray machines. I already had to remove my belt in the line, I just walked through without removing my trainers. I suppose three armed guards standing in the one place covers the need for cattleprods.

The sun has set beyond Aphrodite beach and it really is a spectacular view - Venus riding above an infinitely deep crimson curtain. Now that I've got a 512mb card for the camera, it's time to go insane with exposure modes.

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Foreign 9: Trans-Europe Express

It happened again. The restaurant last night played an excellent Greek pop/rock song, somewhat reminiscent of indie-Natalie Imbruglia, and I have no idea what it was called. Last time that happened I was in the duty-free shop in the airport on Gran Canaria and they kept playing this catchy song. A few months later Las Ketchup topped the charts across Europe. I can only hope the same happens again. I'll recognise it if that happens, but until such a time I'll keep almost remembering how the chorus goes.

Foreign 1: Of What Is Known As...

Whereas I would have been content to sit in the departure lounge, someone has decided we should first board the plane and then wait 40 minutes for taxi clearance. We're going fucking nowhere in seating unfit for battery hens and in close proximity to people I neither know nor like. The pilot has the cheek to thank me for my patience and understanding, because I don't remember expressing either of those sentiments. This in addition to my two particular hates of air travel: 1) the inability to move in any direction other than toward the screens showing the latest Hollywood drivel 2) Personal hygiene is hindered by the difficulty of washing hands and face (more so on the 5 hour flights to the Canaries) without having to disturb everyone else and standing directly in everyone's view waiting for the toilets to become free. I do not like, to quote Bender, being "wrapped in grease".

Away 1, Continued

Well, I didn't sleep for that last hour on the flight. I couldn't find the energy to continue with this either.

The next character from the departure lounge was a Spanish gentleman, probably in his early 30s. In tring to describe him, I get an image of Guy from Green Wing in my head. Just imagine him tanned and wearing an orange jumper and blue Clarkson-esque jeans. He received a call on his phone and then went on to talk fairly loudly in Spanish and wondered aimlessly around the lounge whilst talking.

Away 1: Airborne

It's highly unusual to be in a plane at this time of year. I find myself in a June-mentality - though what that is escapes me.

As I write this, I'm armed with my digital camera. However, the view out my side of the plane consists of various shades of blue fading to black. Meanwhile on the other side, a vibrant red sunset is in progress. El Capitan says we're over Belfast already, which I was about guess when I finished that last sentence. WTF is 32K Feet? The European flight crew's minds have been poisoned by imperial measurements.

Belfast, Prij, 2006