Bells clank and clatter
far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
as large as the sky.
I departed for a walk
on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
guided the way.
I tasted the excitement
on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
under my glare.
Children slid, jumped, and threw
their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
embracing each flake of joy.
The trees groaned under
weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.
Their arms wrapped up
against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.
Keeping gifts in mind beyond
the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
filled with hope and delights.
weather
Summer ’25: V – Dali
Dali Lannatai Coffee Cute Pet Hotel [大理兰纳泰式咖啡萌宠美宿] located on人民路下段东玉街51号 has a rather girthy name. Coffee and pets. What more do you need?! Turned out to be such a cosy place that we stayed twice – and even extended the second stay for a few nights. It did help that our Mancunian Panda teddy was left behind on the first stay. A rescue mission return was required.
A steep cable car up Cangshan took us close to the highest summit. At the top end, Ganton ropeway has paths leading to a lake view at Ximatan (3920m up) and many, many stairs. The cloud cover, damp, thinner air, and gentle breezy movement made walking a tad slippy but doable. Dali-Cangshan UNESCO Global Geopark is gorgeous but treacherous at parts. Steep rocks, sudden drops, and streams slice through the vast landscape offering ample opportunities to test gravity.
The ancient old town of Dali dispersed with its modernity amongst many nooks and crannies is quaint and wild. Party life sits alongside the classic. It feels freer than most Chinese cities and towns. It howls and it barks. Yet, with hotels that have star-gazing rooftops and hidden parks with orange-bellied Hiamalyan squirrels chewing on dropped nuts, the old and new work well together. Its cosmopolitan heartbeat is loud and quiet at the same time. There’s adventure outside the walls and discovery within. Cafes, artists, independent dealers of novel fashion, and mass-produced and much-copied formulas work for space. This synergy is harmony in action. Yet, even having visited in 2021, I could sense that in 2025, the growth and change of Dali was unsustainable and yet another characterless city will emerge. I hope I am wrong!
The amount of disposable oxygen canisters for sale on the ropeway concourse and single-use rain jackets, hoods, hats and more is worrying. Yes, oxygen may be needed but surely adapting and slowing your wandering is much more sensible. Altitude is not to be played with and rising a kilometre in Yunnan can be fatal if rushed. Any dizziness, lightheaded feelings etc can be alarm bells. Take it at a more gentle pace and don’t race to the top. Or not: just buy oxygen canisters.
I can understand hiring big waterproof rain and winter jackets but far too much has been geared for waste. Nature needs harmony and help. The litter levels were low on the pathways at the top but it was clear that far too many people ignore waste bins. This is a global problem. Not just China. Not just Manchester. Scenic streams and lakes need that crispness and freshness that only Mother Nature can bring. We must reconnect to the air, water, and plants that bring us so much comfort and essential conditioning for life. With that the air around Dali and Cangshan is lush and comfortable. Next, Shangri-la calls once again.
Yunnan, of course, was great for fruits. The fertile soils and close proximity of Vietnam and other nations (for swift importing) gave numerous chances to try new fruits. Nothing stood out. Apart from local blueberries and raspberries. The sharp Salak or snake fruit wasn’t that tasty. Nor a fruit that looked like a purple banana. God bless the Silk Road.
Summer ’25: I – A Quest for Hope
Manchester rain made a welcome return on Saturday morning. The sky cried for my departure. The greyness of overhead lines, concrete, and new high rise towers did not clash with the constant matt grey of the leaking vast sky. Blue skies and sunshine had greeted Manchester for months on end. The summer school holidays had now arrived.
Getting to Manchester International Airport’s Terminal 2 early required a 05:25am wake up, an early bus, and the 07:18 train. Kitted with a 20kg rucksack and a lighter 8kg daysack, I ran through my head the things that I may or may have not forgotten. Despite attentive planning and packing, a snag of doubt sat firmly on my shoulder.
Juneyao Airlines, complete with cluttered and near unworkable website for check-in, would be my carrier. Other airlines are available. However, on arrival, my world fell apart. Blood emptied my face my legs became jelly, and the shock of being told my visa had expired hit me like a freight train. It was not a good day.
On the train back to Manchester, I shook in rage qnd worry. I trembled. I vomited. I went to the toilet in other ways. I was empty. Panic battled with sensibility. I struggled home in a zombie-like trance. I entered the house, dropped my rucksack and backpack, and crumpled up into a bawling sack of self-hate, anger, and shame.
On telling the family, I set about rebooting myself and explored resurrection for summer plans. I immediately logged onto Chinese Visa Application Service Centre Manchester’s website and lodged my visa application. A trip to the library was necessary to gain scanned electronic copies of every passport page. And everything seemed to upload.
Sunday:
A day in the garden digging up vineweed and Himalayan-barbed-wire-bramble, with plenty of worrying and questioning of myself. A few video calls and some Bosch Legacy on the telebox. A day of limbo sandwiched by buying some Lego Duplo at a charity shop in Failsworth and an evening of cheese, sauerkraut, and bacon Polish dumplings. That all followed noticing my visa application as not being present. However, it would not allow me to apply due to a previous application. I wondered if it would go well.
Monday:
08:00 – Visa application appear online at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre website.
10:00 – query visa at Manchester Chinese Visa Centre. Visa application received.
11:46 – email request for further information.
12:00 – further information sent.
Pottering around town. Waiting. Limbo.
15:08 – application approved. Email to print with code and hand passport in.
I legged it from the book and coffee shop.
15:24 – printed documents at Manchester Central library.
15:27 – arrive to Manchester China Visa Centre. Attempt to hand off passport and documents. Man at desk, “I’m sorry we don’t accept applications after 15:00.”
I said, “It says 10:00 – 16:00.” He replies, “That’s wrong. We open again for application drop offs at 09:00 tomorrow.” Thanked man at desk.
I’ll be back. The quest goes on. 🐝
Wednesday:
Using the mandatory bonus free day, I headed to Warrington and met Little Big Sis’ Astrid for noodles and a movie. A good switch off from recent tension.
Tuesday:
08:35 – arrival at Chinese Visa Application Service Centre, Manchester. 5th in the queue.
09:00 – Service commences.
Thursday:
08:40 collection queue, position 2.
09:05 visa in hand, all grand.
Go to bed early (16:00/17:00), wake around 22:00/23:00.
Friday’s plan:
Depart for Manchester International Airport around midnight.
03:00 – Check in.
06:00 board flight to Brussels, Belgium. Sing a Vincent Kompany song and wobble my backside like Jeremy Doku skipping past defenders. Look out for former City player Émile Mpenza.
11:40 – board flight to China, in Brussels.
Let’s be fair, I’m not so sure U.K. leisure or family visit visas are as fast.
Drip, drop, drip.
Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall,
A soggy blanket over us all.
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd,
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.
Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance,
Worms pop up, taking their chance.
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!
Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat,
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street.
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap,
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!
The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers,
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears.
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must,
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.
So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun,
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun.
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!
Alicante
Alicante (or Alicant in Valencian) struck me as a surprisingly historic and quiet place for an April wander. Good food, great sights, and a spot of relaxation.
Arriving by train into Alicante port, I crossed the road and followed a few memorised simple directions. Ole Hostel wasn’t too far. Checking in was swift. Within a few minutes, I was back out and heading up to San Fernando Castle and wandering around the great structure. A good view of Alicante and North towards Benidorm gave me an idea of what to do the next day. The rustic sandy coloured castle wasn’t too impressive, but a free entrance wander into a former fortress filled time and provided a place to read a chapter or two of Kill Shot, my latest chapter in Vince Flynn’s Mitch Rapp series.
Following the first castle, I strolled down the town to the marina and followed the promenade northwards for an hour or so. A quick and simple dinner and a sit down by the marina helped power a good night’s sleep. The following morning, after a good breakfast of salmon and avocado omelette, I headed to Castell de Santa Barbara. The walk upwards wasn’t too exciting. Basilica de Santa Maria d’Alicant was a pleasant Gothic church built in the 1500s, but Parc de l’Etreta was closer to an ill-planned concrete monstrosity. It was the kind of park lacking character and constructed in the kind of speedy way that lacks an understanding of erosion and weather conditions.
Once the park made way for the Castell de Santa Barbara lower walls, a road and gated entrance became visible. Soon after that, the grandeur and dramatic fortress opened up. Hereon, the castle allowed for ample exploration, great galleries, fantastic sweeping views, and reading opportunities. The free entrance and the provision of water sales helped keep my attention in the Valencian stronghold. Standing atop Mount Benacantil (169m/554′), the castle has Muslim origins, from when they controlled the Iberian Peninsula, around 711AD to 1296AD. Roman, Iberian, and bronze age artefacts had also been found. Many inhabitants followed, and reinforcements were built.
Much like the Ole Hostel, the scene was warm, friendly, and international. Brazilian and Cuban tourists mixed with local people, and the historic battles of olden times were distant memories. Cosy places to rest your feet and community has long been the norm.
Beneath the castle, the golden sands, and clear waters of Postiguet Beach shone under bright sunlight. To the north, Sierra Grossa stood like a carved hill, edged by roads and tramlines. A ruined petroleum plant stood out amongst the dried lands of the tufted grass top of the hills. From the beach to the castle, the top can be done via an underground lift. I didn’t know that, and to be honest, the walk up and down was part of a casual exploration. On the way down, I strolled by Hércules Football Club’s concrete José Rico Pérez stadium and the historically cruel bullring. The twin of Brighton and Hove, England, U.K. and Wenzhou (China) is a relaxed place, but I couldn’t spend too long there. Two nights was enough. The flight back to England from the nearby Aeropuerto de Alicante-Elche Miguel Hernández arrived. Before long, I’d swapped 22°C sunshine for 12°C and cloud.
Sitting in shorts, on Friday, watching City Elite Development Squad beat West Bromwich Albion 2-0 as the temperature dropped wasn’t my wisest decision. Micah Hamilton‘s great strike following Kane Taylor’s opener concluded a good 2-0 win and a great week with 5 nights in Spain.
April 26th.
Icy morning, no wind blowing.
Bright sunlight, calm delight.
Dew under leaves, sparrows foraging.
Sky pure blue, clouds ever so slight.
Radiant colours, tall grasses.
Young soft flowers, joy reflective.
Branches reach out, squirrel passes.
Spring to summer, natural selective.
Windy Hill & Blackstone Edge
Turning right from Newhey Metrolink Tram station, a short ride from Manchester, Panda, and I walked beyond Bird In Hand and The Bird In The Hand signposted public houses of Newhey. We carried on until an old stone bridge and turned left off Huddersfield Road (A640) onto a cobble path parallel to Piethorne Brook. The Brook ran behind a campsite, industrial estate, and eventually a steep cobbled road swept up over Ogden Reservoir.
Ogden Reservoir, in the Piethorne Valley, sits at the lower end of a strong of water bodies. Our path climbed west and away from the giant puddles. Crossing the Brook west of Ogden Reservoir, up some steps and beyond abandoned building foundations, the path stretched upwards towards Tunshill Lane. This battered old farm track lined with rock, split off at 53.6164428, -2.0610034. Here, the road became abandoned, waterlogged, and an ideal testing point for waterproof footwear. The odd abandoned jeep carcas lay along the way, and long lost gate posts led to nowhere in particular. After a gentle ascent, Windy Hill Transmitter sat atop a top, 389 m (1,276 ft).
Banking left from the Transmitter, the Pennine Way Bridge with splayed leg carried the Pennine Way footpath towards Blackstone Edge (1549’/472m) and whisky cave. The low cloud, fierce hailstones, and torrential precipitation tested my face for feeling and hands for the ability to withstand harsh weather. Panda bounded around joyfully despite the brutal onslaught of uncomfortable weather. The gritstone boulders make for suitable shelter in thunderous winds. The Lancashire-Yorkshire border hosts great views of Manchester, although at times, dark clouds hid the growing skyscraper-lined skyline.
The Calder, Aire, and Ryburn have origins here. Each flow east to the North Sea. Similarly, Roch and Irwell have feeder streams here, destined for the Irish Sea. Having read bits afterwards, I recommend a spot of research before rambling and looking for diverse routes to the top. There are plenty of inspirations out there. I opted for the look at a Metrolink stop and study an Ordnance Survey map for interesting features, then get out and follow a map in my head. An inspection of the weather forecast may have been wise, too. The Craghoppers rain jacket I modelled did the job, though it was touch and go!
Once you’re up, you need to take in the views, snap a few shots, or, in my case, cling to a phone camera and pray the winds didn’t rip it from my hands. The hailstone became sleet and then sideways snow. Hands numbed fast. My face felt battered. An about turn and a descent, against altitude and fading light later, and Panda and I boarded an evening tram back to Manchester. Not a bad afternoon wander. 4 hours or so, all in. So, where next?
Macintosh.
Heavy rain tonight! I didn’t get soaked. D’ya know why?
I was wearing me rain jacket. Me big coat.
If I wear it, it never rains.
The moment I wear shorts or sunglasses,
I’m soaked right through.
I swear my shorts attract clouds.
But, my big jacket. The one with all the pockets.
It has never felt a drop of rain.
That’s why the clouds moved by me on the ride home.
Oppression
The fist Saturday night in Guangzhou: 42°C; Sunday’s peak of 38°C; a toasty Monday, 37°C; Tuesday’s inferno 37°C and Wednesday at 38°C. The week that followed hit highs of 36°C daily. Last week, another Wednesday clocked 37°C. Oppressive heat with a real feel peak of “feels like 49°C.” Just the twelve degrees above human body temperature. Tropical humidity. Storms were coming, again and again. Just like two weeks ago. The 6th typhoon of the year was coming, apparently. The sky was mostly cloudless, most days. 28°C nighttime lows have allowed a wander or two. The 7th typhoon bypassed us. The heat remained.
Of course, being in tropical Guangdong, snow, and ice wasn’t on the menu. Humid subtropical climates rarely see coolness in summer. Still, the average high for July is supposed to be around 32.7°C. June was predicted to be at best 32°C. August is supposed to be, on average 32.5°C. Yet Huizhou and Dongguan are pressure cookers, much like the rest of the province of Guangdong. Sea ice melts, and Antarctic floating debris remains such a long way away from here. In fact, the only ice to be had seems to be in the abundance of single use plastic pots.
As much of Mediterranean Europe cooks or turns to ash, much of the Tropical world faces similar unfamiliar and extreme weather. Much like thousands of migrants displaced to a camp, many people around the globe find themselves fleeing even their place of refuge as fire threatens their temporary sanctuary. As many deserts expand, demands for food production slim the natural water sources whilst chugging out gas and reducing wilderness. The U.N. hold summit after summit and commits countries and their leadership to act. Those countries then break laws, find ways around it, or actually act. Some do okay. Some, like Norway, do well. Many failings are critically noted as insufficient. None are meeting the “1.5°C Paris Agreement compatible” rating. None. Some countries have people who argue they should be exempt because they’re just joining the Industrial Revolution. Aren’t all countries allowed to spend 283 years doing what they want? U.S.A. has the highest quota of negativity towards reduction of climate changing impact by it people. Well, it’s probably that constitution and a breach of rights, drawn up in 1789, at a time when climate change meant leaving home for many indigenous Americans as Europeans took over. And, other lands…
Recently, I passed a protest against the use of oil. This wasn’t Just Stop Oil. It was a group of Mancunians walking through Piccadilly waving banners and flags, quietly. Not a word could be heard from them. On the other side of the road, an angry man approached. “The ice caps will melt by such a date, and such will rise the sea levels to such a point that such will end the world”, belted out the words of a counter-protester who was genuinely protesting against protesters. He carried on, “Greenhouse gases are a myth.” I instantly liked his confidence. “The scientists are paid by Greenpeace to lie.” I disliked him immediately. His rage and custom-print t-shirt were clearly beliefs of his heart. The chosen slogan was “OIL RAN OUT IN 2010.” I assumed it was a rare form of cooking oil made from dodo blood. This balding white man in Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester, could have been me. It could have been any of us. Well, those of us who deny science, favouring homeopathy, and a less bumpy Earth. Or, those who believe a higher presence is just testing us, ahead of a second coming. Or, it could be models, hypotheses, and the rapid human-induced change (since 1760) on the globe that we call home. Iron, wool, cotton, silk, and fabrics to exploding e-bikes, Poundland plastics, bottle caps, and fishing line. Perhaps the lone counter-protester can see how waste like gases, solid materials, lithium from single use electronic vapes, etc. do no harm.
I could see his argument that wildfires are lies. Many wildfires get blamed on arsonists hellbent on unlocking wild land for development or potential declassification from nature parks. It is a time-honoured Western practice for removing listed buildings of heritage status. Greenhouse gases produced by older buildings may be less or more harmful. Perhaps the counter-protestor could start by understanding that Just Stop Oil are primarily concerned with the U.K. not pumping further oil or digging more coal… they even acknowledge that the U.K. must transition its current oil dependency. Although the government and opposition party Labour seemingly resemble crack addicts scrambling for their last dregs.
“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain. ” – Jack Kerouac
The People vs. Just Stop Oil
Do we need to give our heads a massive collective wobble? Is a bunch of suffragette-style protest interrupting a fourth set the biggest of our worry? Just how recycled is that Donald Trump-coloured confetti? Will Gladiators return to TV inspire a Last Of Us radicalisation of our survival instincts?
These past 30 calendar days have seen the highest average global temperatures on record. Presumably, a catastrophic event caused higher temperatures prior to an extinction event. Not that thermometers had been invented, and people evolved. As toasted Mediterranean olive bushes and scolded tourist skin fragrances, the air of Italy and record-breaking Sardinia, shouldn’t we be worried?
As a jetsetter, I’m part of the problem. As a consumer, I’m deeply ingrained in the cause. As a descendent of the Industrial Revolution, I’m the offspring of people who came, saw, and conquered all. We’re the revolution, we the collective that is needed to realise that we’ve gone too far. But… leaders are needed to lead. Decisions, immediate laws, and collective change to make a difference are long overdue. Sadly, UK Prime Minister(s) and other global leaders fail us. Our destructive yet beautiful oxymoron of a species is moronic and running around like a headless chicken… with its wings on fire. Totally cooked. Still, at least we can eat spicy chicken wings. Carbonated.
Forest fires? Rising in numbers. Like sea temperatures. Just like air pollution. Build a rocket boy? No! Everyone, country or business, can jettison vast amounts of space exploration gases. Dig up the coal. Burn it! Burn it all! Tax wind farms and milk the profits of oil barrels. Morality to mortality? Just Stop Rishi Sunak and his massive heated outdoor swimming pool. Our leaders and those at the top, interwoven and controlling all, have their pockets being lined, so how do we fight back?
Just Stop Oil are the suffragettes of the 21st century. Their methods may inconvenience many, and some compare them to terrorists in that they’re too active attacking people rather than leadership and authorities, but Just Stop All are making a fight, and that fight is making talk. Actions? Arguably, the actions at oil terminals helped their order.
Just Stop Oil wish to end fossil fuel licensing in the UK. Vandalism, civil resistance, direct obstruction, and road blocks have featured. Alongside tubes of superglue. Leaderless and without hierarchy, Extinction Rebellion and Insulation Britain are similar to Just Stop Oil. Each has targeted sporting events, British institutions, and maximised publicity. Art is bo exception. Glueing to a viewing. I’m not a fan of destroying heritage and culture, but isn’t it more on the line than our artistic history?
Hundreds of arrests, fines, and Police hours have been dedicated to protests and those seeking change. If it wasn’t for my profession, the consequences, and my own cowardice to abandon responsibility for protest, I’d happily join Just Stop Oil. Sadly, it’s all just my own hot air. Public Order Bill involvement seems a bit too far for this Mancunian from a city famed for radicalism. That real-life James Bond baddy, Drax, can keep pumping harmful gases in peace. As Norway taxes fossil fuel companies at 78% rates to support its economy and move to natural resources, Britain is left behind by greed and corruption. God save the King?
As for the contradiction of supporting an oil-backed football club, sporting an Etihad Airways sponsorship logo, whilst also wanting to support Just Stop Oil, that’s life, filled with contradiction… never simple. If only leaders could regulate and guide us from total destruction. Labour under Keir Starmer and the Conservatives under Rishi Sunak seem no better than one another. Both seem to vilify Just Stop Oil. Wishful thinking to think either can fix this environmental mess?
Guangzhou: WET.
The thing about Guangzhou in spring is it’s wet. The city, particularly around green Tianhe, is drenched. The trees appear to be sweating. Their long branches and hanging roots drip and drop with water. The concrete floors, tiles, and soils all looked soaked. The air smells damp. Humidity dominates this domain.
People who walk, aim for shelter as fine misty rains drip and drape over you. They swallow all who pass. The grey clouds that shroud towers move swiftly bringing hot, soggy downpours and misty conditions. Rain isn’t always around, but almost all clothes give an effect of walking in a swimming pool. Wet. Wet. Wet. And hot. Tropical heat cooks and dehydrates you. Your lungs are a prisoner to damp.
The walk from Guangzhou East railway station towards the Canton Tower and the British Consulate office felt like an upright swim through a cloud. Little dryness was left to the respiratory tract. Even less fresh air. The putrid stink of soggy sodden drains arose over nature’s handful of flowers.
Following a successful appointment, having arrived early and been sent back to the dank air outside only to return later, I emerged back into muggy breezes. The thesaurus would support my use of oppressive terms for stifling terminology. The steamy weather certainly did. With the necessary documents to hand, I steamed back to Guangzhou East railway station and fumbled my way through train ticket booking. The clammy phone in my hand, a tool to close the deal.
The air-conditioning on the 15:49 C7045 train merited the first class seat. It was the only available seat. The last chair from irriguous Guangzhou, bound for Dongguan’s Changping. At Changping, close clammy air circled and crept beneath my shirts buttoned front. The mucky dusty air was exchanged for a private taxi to meet Gerry for dinner.
The latest in a long line of Kings Bars and Restaurants, at the Virgin Hotel 4th floor, made for frosty respite to the lack of chill outdoors.
Hard rain.
Trapped, twisted and descending; landing seemed so far; never ending. Flushed from on high; plummeting from cold beginnings to the warm decks below.
When it rains, it pours. The heavy hard rain begins as a gentle drop here. And a small drop there. Booming on the surface. Shattering outwards. Explosive force on almost microscopic scale. The end of the flow.
Drifting by influence; winds pull and push; tugging at the deluge and its wild rush; and unending battle of elemental force; tectonics in the sky; ending the moment of dry. Neither fast nor slow.
What started out condensed; freezing and crushed together; slid out and fell; spiraling like a dog fight; drifting and shifting; catching every light; warmer now. Hot snow?
The mind’s eye. Cry. Cry. Cry. Bellow out the yell. Roar in pain. Not now. another again. Victor slain. End of the game. Ended flow.
Lately.
Good evening 晚上好 / 你好 Hello!
Lately it has been a manic period of hustle and bustle at Tungwah Wenzel International School (TWIS). Also, in my free time, I’ve been heavily hard at work procrastinating and doing the things I enjoy doing, whenever I feel they’re necessary. Whoever said a lack of responsibility was easy, lied. Cappuccino has been close to hand. Almost as luxury as the pair of Ravemen CR900 cycling lights. An upgrade from the N900 models. Remote controls and battery level monitors were too tempting.
The Diploma Programme team have been working solidly under great leadership. The application and candidate status has become approved. Not bad for a school without any current high school students! Now we’re gunning, pedal to the metal, for the completion of MYP’s International Bachelorette status.
The uncertainty of when travel to the U.K. hangs over my head like a Titanic-sized Goliath of scrapped metal. At times it feels like it may drop and make my noggin more squishy than nature intended. At other times, the optimism factory is producing positive vibes and sending them out in Olympic-sized swimming pool proportions. With every passing news article, input by experts, advice of Olympians going to Beijing 2022 and chilling in quarantine for twenty-one days prior to the Winter Olympics. Nothing is certain.
For two of our Language and Literature class groups, students selected Lord of The Flies and It’s Kind of a Funny Story. Exams have been prepared for the former and the latter shall be assessed by essay. In the meantime, the second units are in full preparation. As are units three to five. The school year map is freshly under way. And that’s before looking at Science classes with grades 6 to 8. Hopefully the weather will drop below thirty degrees Celsius to allow some extra evening preparation motivation.
I recently caught up with Shenzhen Blues, Katherine and Stephen in Shenzhen. A fantastic Turkish meal at Mevlana (#154 Zhenxing Road, Huaqiangbei, Futian) with a witty Pakistani waitress made for a fun afternoon. Shenzhen is a city with great food and a fantastic place to recover after hiking. And matter about City’s impressive draw at Anfield.
The relentless and ferocious Guangdong heat has tested my mind and body, and ruined my balcony garden. The grape vines perished in the inexorable sunlight and the numerous passion fruit plants became single digits. The uncompromising sunshine has dried my daisies and ruthlessly culled my apparently less than shaded herb garden. The harsh weather has seldom given way to rain, typhoons or monsoons this summer. It’s dogged single-minded unyielding approach to the environment has been cooking and drying for too long. Today hit 34 degrees Celsius and that was a cool part of this last week!
Goodbye 再见
Hot steps.
晚上好 Good evening. 你好。Hello!
The trek today was bloody tough. Tougher than it ought to have been. I’d had a big breakfast, two trekking bars, two bread rolls stuffed with optimism and sustaining properties. Three litres of liquid and two well-packed ice-lollies. Yet, something was missing. A double dose of electrolytes in tablet form on two occasions was also deployed. Yet, it was a tough slog at the final furlong. The 30 degree heat and the lack of opportunity to hide from the sun were unkind on my delicate physique.
The trek started somewhere between relentlessly hot and smouldering heat more befitting the devil’s home. A jolly group of wandering enthusiasts gathered having been dropped from a convoy of cars at the foot of a hilltop road. Here a few stretches and introductions were made. The local security guard took a few details for the Dapeng trekking pathway requirements. Here on, we wouldn’t see a shop or house for hours.
The last leg of the meandering pathways into Xi Chong (西冲) village was under the cover of darkness. After using my eyesight for as long as physically possible, I switched to 900 lumens of torchlight. The results were splendid. I spied various toads, geckos and even a praying mantis. Also, it helped in avoiding the bloody big orb spider webs.
Armed with a Snickers chocolate and nut bar, at least two extra litres of water (thanks to kind and caring people) the latter stage of up a bit, down a bit and up some more before down was possible. Cramp in both legs and dehydration had been a real stumbling block since our stop at a waterfall and stream. The sit down took my lagging stride but it didn’t ruin the views.
Throughout the walk, people were people. Stripped away of the hustle and bustle of life, and the majority of people I have met in China are warmhearted and friendly. Rehmy the ‘Chinese Lara Croft’, Sophia and two very kind students shared fruits and words. That’s exactly the reason I joined the Global Hikers walking group in Shenzhen today.
The route takes in mostly coastal pathways, scrambling over rocks hot enough to fry eggs on and scrubs of coastal forestry. Expecting bugs, I was armed with citronella. Expecting sun, I was armed with factor fifty sunblock. Expecting scree and slippery bits, I wore my trekking trainers. They fitted the job perfectly. The up, down and around the bays overlooking the distant Hong Kong under bright sunshine certainly feels like a walk. It’s delightful at stages and testing at others. I have no regrets.
谢谢你。Thank you kindly. 再见 Goodbye.
Refresh.
Craning my neck: stooped harshly.
Deep inside the bowl: placed hands partially.
Turning the pressure to flow: seeking coolness.
In my Chinese house: undrinkable cruelness.
The water here: causing neshness.
Flowing slow water in Manchester: enhanced freshness.
Upstairs at the bathroom: Broom Avenue childhood.
Drinking fast to slow: glug, glug, should, would and could.
Cooler than air, fresher than fair: my share.
After teeth, before sleep: my answered prayer.
I miss that tap: we were raised together.
The tap of life: water from Lake District weather.
Stage XI: Abuji Cuo
你好！Nihao! Hello!
Anticipation surrounded the morning. We after off for a selection of steamed, boiled and grilled breakfast mainstays of Chinese breakfasts (across this huge nation). With that, those without raincoats purchased those disposable rain jackets designed to be worn for an hour or so. The kind that would make Mr Macintosh roll in his grave with tears. Not to mention environmentalists. Sorry Greta!
Abuji Cuo (阿布吉措) sounds Japanese. It certainly seems unlike Mandarin Chinese. It’s surrounded by the Ajiagang Mountains and stands high over meadows and scattered pasture houses. It’s well off the beaten track and fairly clean of trail litter. The name comes from one of the many local Yunnan languages and people but I couldn’t find a true translation or meaning. It is apparently very holy. The China National Highway 214 and Xiangli Expressway (toll road) are to the west. Here a dirt track leads under two bridges (the new Shangri-la railway line).
The car journey led us to a gate. It had a weight on one end and two barriers across the path ahead. Here began the wander. The base camp was labelled just that. The pathway was an old track, now used by loggers as well as the original farming people of these steep damp foothills.
Rounding a bend, the footpath exited the road, passing between free-range pigs and towards a slim yet fast-rushing stream. Our group of six with a local man tagging along crossed the stream over felled logs now doubling as a bridge. Here the path gently led to an open plain standing below the face of the mountains. The phone signal had soon disappeared – something good for the quiet ahead, but unusual on mainland China.
After passing through the deep lush green meadow, the path banked left over several bubbling streams complete with stepping stones and bridging points. Here the path zig-zagged up and across gaining altitude fast. It’s steep sections were marred by slippy sticky clay interspersed by sharp shards of rock. The sides of the path displayed vivid biodiversity with wild gooseberries, something like rhubarb and wild strawberry plants amongst the plethora of greenery.
A local Yunnan man Qī Lín(七林), a girl from Anhui, a student from Guangzhou, a girl from Heyuan, a girl from Hubei, and another girl (from somewhere in China) walked up in light to heavy rain. The thick cloud thinned and grew in almost pulsating slow motion. At times the valley behind seemed hidden. At others it became a tapestry of various green hues.
The imposing mountain to our right shoulder (mostly) could have been Skull Island from the King Kong movies. It’s ferocious face looked brittle and completely impervious to those intrepid climbers who like such nooks and crannies. The artistry of nature had created such a detailed spectacle. The top range of peaks could have been a crown, or a bed of thorns. It truly sets the imagination running as wild as the fight ravines within.
The stream accompanied the walk up, and at times became the pathway giving clear flow to passersby in need of a quenching swig of freshness. After one small lake the path hugs a slope covered in knife-sharp vicious broken rocks. Blue flowers emerge where the rocks allow soil to gather. The rug of land is unforgiving and not a place to stand in awe of the view ahead.
What lies ahead is possibly the greatest lake view I have ever seen. The cauldron of clear green and blue water appears impossibly deep. Local legend has it that there is no bottom to the icy water. It’s entirely believable. The edges look crystal clear but beyond that, well diving would be the only way to know what lies beneath. The surrounding slopes are mixed in terms of harsh angles but most are barren. Life is not easy. We were stood around 4300m and the highest point is about 500m above here.
The caldera-shape of the valley spreads wide and long. From numerous vantage points it’s hard to tell what started this paradise on high. The geological features and lay of the land are mesmerising. It grips your heart whilst choking your throat of air. You can suddenly become breathtakingly awestruck. You look. It stares back blankly. Rumour has it, if you speak to loud then rain will come. Here at the top, for the most part, rain eluded our group. The feeling of healing as you look around you at the majestic landscape is overwhelming. I couldn’t help but feel my heartstrings being tugged and a tear in my eye. There are few places left that are this pristine.
Shangri-la (香格里拉县/Xiānggélǐlāxiàn) is a county and a city that draws it’s English and Chinese names from James Hilton’s Lost Horizon. It influenced China to rename the Yunnan city of Zhōngdiàn (中甸) in 2001 to Shangri-la. The Shangri-la of Hilton’s writing could have been Kashmir, Tibet or anywhere else along the Kunlun Mountains of the author’s description. But, if James Hilton had have travelled to Yunnan and Abuji Cuo to see the steep cliffs, loose and rocky earth scattered with flora and colour, he may have set his chapters here.
Abuji Cuo is about 4 to 5 hours (around 17-20km) up and only accessible from May to October. The gate (near a temple) is manned and access denied at other times to allow ecological balance. Non-slip shoes are essential, although I spied a few people in sport shoes. One unlucky soul was sporting a sprained wrist, leg injury and looked sheepish. Her local guide was guiding her down ever so slowly. The muddy pathways demand good grips. The steep falls are lethal in appearance. And there are yaks. Yaks can surprise from above, and they did on our walk once or twice. Death by yaks would be rather a bad day at the office. The road starts between to Bixiang and XiaoZhongDianZhen.
The hamlets of Nigeria, where we drank milk, and the Niguqe (尼古个) hamlet are sparsely populated so expect to see few people. The nearby hamlet of Gangzhemu (岗者木) is close to a scenic spot called Bitahai (碧塔海景区) but that could easily be a different world. However, it would make a tasty multi-day hike with camping. Scope to return? Head to Bengla (崩拉)?
The walk back down was every bit as unforgettable as the ascent. Ancient woodlands caked in drapes of moss and lichens, the sound of a chorus of different birds and the smell of flowers give your senses a tasty day. After reaching the pasture at the cliff face, a local woman gave us hot potatoes, and well wishes. After that we walked to the road and were greeted by a drift (or drove) of pigs. The curious tail-wagging group led us to discover some local fruits, to which nobody knows the name. QiéZi gave me one that looks like it is shaped like a bottom. Rather cheeky!
Soon after Qī Lín (七林) introduced us to an elderly farming couple. Here we had hot milk, sour homemade yogurt and delicious cheese. The wooden cabin was a good end to a day’s hike and we bid the farmers goodbye before jumping in a car back to Shangri-la. The unique and diverse holy Abuji pasture would occupy our minds for the evening and I’m sure that visiting there, we gained something more.
Grid reference: 27.666254378118495, 99.90886934422305 (Abuji Cuo) to Bixiang village (27.604282621386876, 99.78759058373961). 14km distance as a local chough would fly.
再见！Zai Jian! Goodbye!
Rain! Rain! Rain!
How do,
“Rain, rain, rain, a wicked rain
Falling from the sky
Down, down, down, pouring down
Upon the night
Well there’s just one chance in a million
That someday we’ll make it out alive” – Wicked Rain, Los Lobos
Pluviophile means a lover of rain. I heard that people who identify as lovers of rain are generally down to earth and calm. I’ve even been told that daydreamers and those inclined to imagine are usually associated with that of rain. I’ve never fact checked these matters as I was too busy dreaming.
The beat of the rain droplets finding their way from way up high to land and join their countless companions. Some land on trees. Some impact puddles. Many land and immediately get swept away.
Many days without rain make my heart feel dry and untouched. Rain is my pacemaker. I’m from Manchester, a city with a heart of regular rainfall. I now in Dongguan, a city that gets a fair amount of showers throughout monsoon season. Every drop of life that falls from the sky brings
The energy of the downpour fills me. The damp smell opens my nostrils. It fills my lungs and soaks into my blood. I’m drawn to puddles and want to stamp in them, no matter the cost to my sodden shoes. That’s when I know that running is needed. Not in sun. Not in cold. Not on a dry hot evening blazing with colourful light. No. I choose rain.
Thank you kindly and ta’ra for now!
Trilogy.
Good evening from China.
Mr Ben caught my ear a few moon ago. He mentioned that the movie Unbreakable, with Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson was part of a trilogy. I did not know that. So, last week Mr Ben pointed me in the direction of the movies again. So, after an abandoned cycle ride after 45km, in torrential rain, I chomped on pizza, swigged good coffee and sank into the sofa.
Split and Mr Glass were most enjoyable. I found the intensity of Split closer to that of a truly well mastered horror movie. Mr Glass was closer to X-Men and Batman Begins without being over-glossed. Coupled with great menacing soundtracks, a well cast ensemble and gritty camera work, all were as digestible as my Lauren’s Pizza order.
As someone who appreciates graphic novels and their genre, I enjoyed the pull of both movies. I must confess to having not seen Unbreakable since 2000 when it came out, so now I’ll look back on that as a prequel. This trilogy was thankfully not just made for sales. Writer and director M. Night Shyamalan has come far since his 1999 hit The Sixth Sense. I see dead people? Signs remains one of my favourite flicks for its pointers back to classic thrillers and sci-fi. It did much for a revision of classic cinema in modern times. Manoj Nelliyattu (Night?) Shyamalan penned and directed The Happening which I enjoyed, despite the bleak feel. I’m now looking forward to the Indian-American director’s movie Old, due out in July of 2021.
Split stars one of my favourite actors in James Mcavoy. In this movie his tortured role doesn’t endear him quite the way he did whilst playing Rory O’Shea in Inside I’m Dancing. To many Mancunians, James Mcavoy will always be Liam from pub comedy Early Doors or Steve from Shameless. Scatter. Since those days though, Mcavoy has gone far and wide, scoring awards, landing big roles and doing proud for his native Scotland. Proof that Glaswegian talent can go anywhere, even if he does follow Celtic.
So following two good movies, I’m lay down listening to the music of Katherine Jenkins, Weezer, Foo Fighters, Ellie Goulding, Barry Gibb, Sia, and The Killers. A selection of 2021’s album releases isn’t a bad way to unwind. Weezer and Foo Fighters would definitely sound better live. The Killers have visit very familiar territory, whilst Barry Gibb, of famous band The Bee Gees, plays a few gentle collaboration hits. All very good for riding a bicycle casually. And The Bee Gees were formed in Manchester, so it’s good to visit one’s local music from time to time.
Enjoy your weekend.
Here’s a duo of photos from today’s bike ride:
Simple questions. Simple answers.
“Do you play football in the rain?”
“Of course!”
It’s raining.”
“We play on on an all weather pitch.”
“Don’t you get wet?”
“Yes, a little.”
“It must be very cold, right?”
“Not really, because we move and heat our muscles up.”
“What about your skin?”
“Skin is waterproof.”
/////
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, I’m cycling.”
“It’s raining tomorrow. How can you cycle in the rain?”
“Rain jackets and care.”
“Rain is cold and dangerous. Won’t you catch a cold?”
“A cold is a virus. I may be more susceptible but it’s unlikely I’ll catch a cold due to rain.”
“What about your skin?”
“Skin is waterproof.”
////
“We can’t go outside tomorrow. What can?we do?”
“We can go outside.”
“But… but… it’s raining. How can we?”
“Macintosh jackets, umbrellas and Wellington boots are useful.”
“What about my skin?”
“It’s waterproof.”
A.C. v Me
The air conditioner light is on. It’s seventeen above zero and the power still feeds it. I should stand up and disconnect it. I should. But I don’t. I’m worried if I stand up that the machine will win. Tomorrow it could be warmer. Then I plug it back in like a faithful servant. It shouldn’t be warmer tomorrow. The machine knows better.
That air conditioning unit of mine has seen much. It’s wise. It’s witnessed heat and coped with far worse than I can handle. Storms. Lashing winds. Torrential rainfall. Zipping daggers of lightning. Hailstones as big as marbles. It’s felt me hitting it as I pursue a bloodsucker of a mosquito. It’s been deadened by lightning and my operatic singing. It still clings the wall resolutely.
I say clings. It perches. No. It hugs. Hugs tightly like a giant curved fat bat with huge jaws. It just watches and waits, lifeless and cold. It’s heat setting is hidden away, unneeded. It knows that I don’t like warmth and I like the air to move. It waits for my moment of weakness. Patience is key. It’ll get me. It senses my needs.
But, after all that thought, I change my mind. Out pops the plug. Socket empty. It’ll be hot tomorrow. Just you see. It knows. Oh, how it knows. See you tomorrow.
“OK, mum’s the word!”
How do! / 你好 (nĭ hăo) / Namaste / Welcome!
“Let’s sing it and rhyme; Let’s give it one more time; Let’s show the kids how to do it fine, fine, fine, fine” – All The Best, R.E.M.
Happy birthday to my dearest Mum. Much can be said for my Mum. I want to write it though. Maybe the video says a little, but I think some words are best and need jotting down. Call it reinforcement. Call it a child of a mother without means to display emotion through a hug. Afterall geography and COVID-19 keep us apart. Mothering Sunday and Mother’s Day celebrate mums and mothers (or moms) around the world. A birthday is much more personal than that but by no means less important. Every day I live and breathe on this here Earth is because of my Mum. Dad too. But, deep down we all know mums are more important.
Mums are your first true friend. They’re the best friend we should all have from day one of our lives. They are a forever friend. Mums stick by you no matter what, or they should. There are always exceptions. If a mum disowns you for liking Man Utd, then that’s your own fault. Thankfully, my mum, Mum, as I call her, because she is my mum and Mum to two others: my dreaded siblings Astrid and Paul; yes, thankfully my Mum is brilliant. She’s always listened to great music like Pulp, R.E.M., James, Finley Quaye, and Led Zeppelin. Mum has encouraged me from an early age to read. I was deep into the worlds of Tolkien long before they were fashionable. Armed with knowledge of The Lord of The Rings. Mum made sure I was presented with a stage show version long before a live action version hit the silver screen. The Tameside Hippodrome remains a fond memory with orcs and lasers casting haunting imagery from the central stage. To receive books was always wonderful. Mum and Dad provided great volumes from an early age. Collecting Weetabix tokens sometimes led to great books. Some I still have today and share amongst my classroom. These were the books that set me on my way.
Mum has grafted and strived to make each of us better. Likewise, Mum has set a prime of example of improving herself. Mum has studied at the Open University in Sociology. Mum has always tried to reason her socialist values and community spirit. She has imparted her knowledge on me and always allowed me to make my own judgements and find my own way. As Mum has shared so many great things, I always want to show her my world. I have loved being able to see Mum at Manchester City, or go to a music gig like The Levellers with me. Mum may have heard of and witnessed the Waterboys when they first came around, but my musical world is constantly expanding. As I was experiencing James singing Sit Down at an Air Cadet Christmas party, Mum was being attending their live gigs. Over the years I have grew to love James, and their song Getting Away With It (All Messed Up) is an emotional track. It reminds me of me as a nuisance and a liability towards my mum, as I stuttered and faulted my way through secondary school. Mum has been great for me. My rock. My believer.
Mum treated me once to a birthday trip, with Neil Fanning, to Blackpool and it rained heavily. We were drenched. Mum took me to the Roxy Cinema to see Ghostbusters II and it was flooded. Mum showed me the V.E. celebrations at Manchester Town hall and we had fireworks rain down on us. At Woodford Airshow, Mum calmed me down after seeing a Spitfire crash. As the Supermarine Spitfire Mk XIV struck the ground at the bottom of a low level loop during an air display, Mum must have felt as sick as everyone around them. Pilot David Moore didn’t survive. Bizarrely the aircraft did and was moved to Rolls Royce in Derby for restoration to flying condition. Mum explained everything to me, a young boy, a bit upset by the huge explosion on 27/6/92 at 15:08. I’ve just seen the video again, and it made my eyes water with tears. That’s what mums do, they put their kids ahead of them. They’re the strongest people on Earth. They sacrifice their own time, space and energy to look after and protect us. That’s why Mum spotted me crying when Bambi’s mother died. I can’t explain the tears shed at E.T. or Thomas the Tank Engine. Perhaps those days were dusty.
Eating fresh bread at the observation area (not medical) of Manchester Airport and watching planes land made a few different days. Trips to museums in and around Greater Manchester gave me an appreciation of British heritage early on. Big steam wheels at Wigan Pier and seeing Gran and Ernie at the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry. You can’t fault Mum’s ability to keep our young brains active. Ernie gave me an Engine Driver hat that day.
I wanted to get Mum an experience day, or a stay at a hotel somewhere nice, but the climate around COVID-19/coronavirus isn’t so ideal. Besides, it is safer to remain indoors, stay at home and stay alert. You have to look after your mother because you can only have one. Unless you were adopted. Some of those foster mothers are brave lots, aren’t they?! Anyway, with the world being as it is, vouchers aren’t ideal. I remember Mum gave me a Borders bookstore voucher for Christmas but the company went into administration and closed, so I never used it. Well, I kind of did, but I can’t explain how or where. Those Stephen King horror-thrillers have since move on. I have an idea what to gift Mum, but I need to wait for this COVID-19/coronavirus to all blow over…
My passion for camping came from budget holidays as a kid, usually in the north of England or Wales. The fiscally challenged as those who suffer from political correctness would recognise that times were hard. Money was scarce but we had good food, holidays, and a roof over our head always. There were treats and Fridays used to be the day that maybe a Mars bar or another chocolate treat was waiting. Mum allowed me treats like staying up late on a Sunday to watch London’s Burning or other days to watch comedy shows like Have I Got News For You. On the whole early nights were encouraged and bed would be around 9 o’clock and often with a book under the duvet. Walking was encouraged and as Mum didn’t have a car, walking became normal. The Levenshulme to Reddish Vale and back, via Houldsworth Mill was a favourite trot. Zipping around Disley and Lyme Park was a bigger treat.
Whenever there has been a challenge and times have been tough, Mum has been there to support me and has very much been the 12th player that many football clubs claim to have. That knowledge that my Mum has been around the corner or a quick phone call away, has always made me feel stronger. Usually it takes very little conversation to wipe away any doubt or reduce a huge worry to little more than a niggling ache. I always think Marlon Brando’s farewell to his son speech in Superman: The Movie could easily fit my Mum, obviously with some gender realignments and name changes.
“You will travel far, my little Kal-El. But we will never leave you… even in the face of our death. The richness of our lives shall be yours. All that I have, all that I’ve learned, everything I feel… all this, and more, I… I bequeath you, my son. You will carry me inside you, all the days of your life. You will make my strength your own, and see my life through your eyes, as your life will be seen through mine. The son becomes the father, and the father the son. This is all I… all I can send you, Kal-El.” – Marlon Brando as Jor-El, Superman: The Movie
Mum’s the word
(a popular English idiom)
Used by William Shakespeare, in Henry VI, Part 2.
“Seal up your lips and give no words but mum.” – Henry VI, Part 2, Act 1, Scene 2
“Mum” is slang for momme. Momme means: be silent (or do not reveal). Old English: “mīma“. Latin: mimus (meaning silent actor/imitator).
It was used between 1350-1400 in Middle English.
“Thou mightest beter meten the myst on Malverne hulles; Then geten a mom of heore mouth til moneye weore schewed!” – Piers Plowman, William Langland
So, on this 20th of June, it is Mum’s birthday, the day before Bermuda’s Shaun Goater Day. Both should be in your calendar. And if not, why not? My Mum is ace. Shaun Goater was an ace player. Perhaps I can get Shaun Goater to say happy birthday to my Mum. That’d be fitting seeing as my Mum asked ‘The Goat’ to write me a Christmas card once. Mums are ace, right!?
P.S. Mum, let’s go to Blackpool Tower and recreate this photograph in 2021. Good idea?
I’d also like to invite you to write some Blog posts for me too. Thanks in advance Mum!
Your loving son, John, aged 37.5-ish.
The Man on Brazennoze Street
How do! / 你好 (nĭ hăo) / Namaste / Welcome!
There’s a global pandemic on. The coronavirus and its related disease COVID-19 has ravaged the planet, taking at least 411,277 (from 7,238,611 infected) lives. Racism is being warred against too. As protestors and police get close and personal, belief and freedom are risks. Standing up against police violence, draws people into a dilemma. End or delay the battle against racism? Contribute to the spread of a potentially fatal disease? If you choose to overwhelm the NHS (National Health service). The virus doesn’t care one iota about your race. You’re ostensibly more likely to die if you are black, Asian or Middle-Eastern, so is it safe to protest? What are your thoughts? For something that disproportionately affects minority communities, that are now coming together in protest, well this could be a huge disaster. Beliefs versus risks. In my mind, I’d want to support the protests, but I’d want to support and protect the NHS too…
“We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
I used to eat at Shirley’s Café or Gregg’s bakery and get a breakfast barmcake with a coffee, when I worked on the corner of Brazennoze Street. Here I could walk down the road and see something odd. Manchester has a statue living down the road from Albert Square. High upon a granite plinth the distinct shape of Abraham Lincoln can be seen standing. That’s right. Abraham Lincoln (February 12, 1809 – April 15, 1865), 16th President of the U.S. of America. He’s been stood on Brazennoze Street since around 1986 eyeing passers-by but casting no judgement. The street runs between Albert Square and Deansgate gaining large footfall around office hours.
“You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.” – Abraham Lincoln
The square opening on Brazennoze Street is known as Lincoln Square. Few know this. There aren’t many signs and up until a recent renovation nearby, the square has largely been overlooked in favour of the more marketable St. Anne’s Square, Albert Square and the Corn Exchange frontage. The pedestrianised pathway uses red bricks so common within northwest England, and on a damp rainy Mancunian day, it isn’t a place to go looking for escape. A few saplings and trees can be seen nearby but it doesn’t feel very green or warm. Manchester, like many port cities (we have a Ship Canal don’t you know!), has links to slavery. Any city with an insurance company or a bank does. Sorry Liverpool.
Our Lincoln, the our kid of that America, used to be stood down Platt Fields Park. The son of William Howard Taft (27th President of the U.S.A.) made it. Charles Phelps Taft’s statue was one of two gifted to England – not Manchester, as a symbol of Anglo-American togetherness. One replica ended up in London, as the capital city. The original was left in Cincinnati, Ohio where Taft Junior was mayor.
The other replica was kind of posted to Liverpool but Manchester Art Gallery put in a sneaky bis in 1918, kind of a precursor to eBay outbidding and snatched it from Scouse hands [see also Demba Ba and Steven Gerrard]. London, then went one better and brought a much larger replica of a different Lincoln statue, in what can only be seen as a pissing competition. London urinated higher. By 1919, Manchester’s Lincoln statue was added to Platt Fields. By 1986, Manchester wanted to give more prominence to Lincoln and the cause. It was moved to Lincoln Square and placed on a new plinth. Beneath it a plague reads, “The support that the working people of Manchester gave in their fight for the abolition of slavery during the American Civil War…….By supporting the union under President Lincoln at a time when there was an economic blockade of the southern states the Lancashire cotton workers were denied access to raw cotton which caused considerable unemployment throughout the cotton industry.”
“Slavery is founded in the selfishness of man’s nature – opposition to it is his love of justice. These principles are an eternal antagonism; and when brought into collision so fiercely, as slavery extension brings them, shocks and throes and convulsions must ceaselessly follow.” – Abraham Lincoln
Manchester’s liberal values and Lincoln’s cause became as one. Britain was an ally. Reportedly even the Confederate Flag flew on some Lancashire mills during the American Civil War. Decades of air pollution and legendary Mancunian weather had left it neat impossible to read the words on the statue of Lincoln’s plaque. His Royal African Company displaced around 80,000 people (men, women and children) to America. Manchester’s statue of Lincoln is seen as a key point for the opposition to slavery. Known often as the ‘Great Emancipator’, Lincoln was part of society’s push towards progression and racial justice. Some argue he was a racist, some don’t. But, what can’t be chalked away from history are the facts. Lincoln made a difference, in far more difficult times for many, especially Africans and African-Americans. What should be taken from Lincoln’s appearance in Manchester, is that Lincoln, like many of his peers was complex character and times, which may explain why he apparently wanted to re-colonize the former-slaves, or send them back to Africa…
“Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it.” – Abraham Lincoln
The Abolition of the Slave Trade Act came in 1807. Almost 213 years later a statue was torn down, toppled and sank in Bristol. The name Colston has long been known. Edward Colston was a 17th Century slave trader. A bastard and a blight on British history, part of the very tapestry that had built an Empire. Around 10,000 people paraded the wreckage before the statue was scuttled in the harbour. Around this time Sir Winston Churchill’s statue is London was sprayed with additional text, ‘was a racist’. Scottish streets were renamed after police brutality victims. Oxford University is a target due to its links to Cecil Rhodes (think white supremacy, colonialism and racism).
Whilst Abraham Lincoln was unsure about what to do with slaves after the end of slavery, now society finds itself at a road where one terrible death has triggered a wave of protest. There is no room in society for racism. Many of yesterday’s heroes or founders of today’s world are not good. Just as many companies has profited from the Nazi persecution of Jewish and other ethnic backgrounds, we have to embrace the atrocities and learn.
“Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.” – Abraham Lincoln
JAB Holdings (Reimann family) that own Krispy Kreme, Panera Bread and Pret a Manger etc have admitted to profiting under the Nazi regime. French cosmetics company L’Oréal have been tied to illegal property seizures. Barclays Bank (established 1690) has already compensated Jewish members who had their assets seized in France. If you have heard of Siemens, Bayer, Nestle, Coca-Cola, Allianz (Bayern Munich’s ground which is weird for a club once taunted as a so-called “Jews’ club” by Hitler’s twonks), Audi, BMW, IBM, Hugo Boss, Mercedes-Benz, and Volkswagen well you may have heard that they are some of the corporations that made some money from forced Jewish labour. These historic crimes were after black slavery (to and in America), yet seem to have been discussed more openly. History cannot afford to hide indifference.
“If there is anything that a man can do well, I say let him do it. Give him a chance.” – Abraham Lincoln
We’re in the 21st century yet a few idiots want to keep us in the past and destroy world relations. The less said about ‘Miss Hitler’ and Trump the better. We can reshape history and move artefacts that our forefathers and mothers saw fit to decorate cities and towns. We don’t have to be proud of all of our heritage. We don’t need to hide it all. We shouldn’t be hiding any of it. I was born a European and next year, I’ll just be British. I’m human and I am Mancunian – and for me being Mancunian is all about embracing people no matter where they come from, what they believe or who they support (even if it is United).
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
爱与和平 and love
The Mancunian Way, Dongguan
How do! / 你好 (nĭ hăo) / Namaste / Welcome!
“I feel so extraordinary; Something’s got a hold on me; I get this feeling I’m in motion; A sudden sense of liberty.” – New Order’s song True Faith.
I’m patriotic towards the U.K. in a way. I sing praise and fly the flag for great people, wonderful history and fantastic places. I know that the story of the U.K.’s history has often been brutal, cruel and deserves little love. Even within the 21st century the U.K., as it moves away from a colonial and European past, and becomes less connected, yet more dependent on overseas trading and manufacture is and always will be a wonderful country. It’s my home. I was born in Manchester, England. I don’t call myself English. I’m British, when I choose to be. I’m Mancunian always. I have Celtic blood in me from my Irish and Welsh great grandparents. My roots are clear and free. But this tree doesn’t cling to the past and history. This tree wants to expand and be watered by different skies. For me tradition and culture are important but understanding and freedom to choose your own pathway are far more intrinsic to living. This tree is currently sat on its arse in Changping, Dongguan. Today’s and yesterday’s rugby and football have been washed out by Dragon Boat rains. I have some free time.
Today, I want to show a gallery and write a little about the culture of Dongguan and China. I’ve been here for the vast majority of the 2308 days now (11th February 2014). I believe many great days have passed and many more will follow. That’s why I am right here, right now. I arrived and didn’t feel too much way of culture shock. Around me a reasonably established cultured expat community threaded amongst the fabric of the local workforces and people of Guangdong.
“Because we need each other; We believe in one another; And I know we’re going to uncover; What’s sleepin’ in our soul” – Acquiesce by Oasis.
Since, I arrived I have seen Dongguan grow and grow. It is now classed as a Megacity. It seemingly will never stop growing. There are skyscrapers and apartment blocks skimming the sky in every single district of Dongguan. Whereas in 2014, I’d notice dozens of these mammoth constructions and many more sprouting buildings, now I am seeing hundreds and hundreds of established communities and hubs here, there and everywhere. I used to consider Nancheng and Dongcheng as the central axis of Dongguan. Now the townships of Chang’an (home of Oppo), Changping and the ever-growing former fields of Songshan Lake (home of Huawei), and the sprawls of Liaobu town could easily be seen as central areas. The arrival of the Huizhou to now West Dongguan Railway Station (soon to be Guangzhou East) or 莞惠城际轨道交通 /莞惠线 Guanhui intercity railway has added to rapid growth. As it joins the short-named Pearl River Delta Metropolitan Region Intercity Railway System (珠江三角洲地区城际轨道交通). That’s more than 65 railway stations in close proximity to Dongguan. Like all of the Pearl River Delta, this city is growing fast – and going places.
When not hopping on 200 km/h (124 mph) railway systems, I have ample opportunity to meet great people. Dongguan‘s community is largely migrant with people coming from all over China and the world beyond. International jet-setters with lives here, include Serbians, Kiwis, and even Scousers. They can be found in some of the office places, factories, bars and restaurants throughout the city. Playing football with Brazilians or Russians, or cycling with Dongbei people is possible or a spot of chess at Murray’s Irish Pub with Ukranian opposition. Anything goes here. Drinking homebrew at Liberty Brewing Company (曼哈顿餐吧) in Dongcheng after playing tag rugby with Tongans, South Africans, Germans and Malaysians makes me realise how lucky I am. This is a city that is tidying up and beautifying itself at an alarming rate.
Throughout the 6.5 years of life in and around Dongguan, I’ve slipped up and down ginnels, seeking out the new and old. There have been trips to pizza joints in obscure areas, Dragon Boat races watched, Cosplay events attended and English competitions observed. Dongguan, like Manchester, has a heartbeat that shows anything is possible and if it isn’t here, you make it. You can make something new, or your bring something to the party. You can sit and complain about people taking your photo or saying, “wàiguórén” (foreigner/外国人) or you can show the people around you, your worth.
This week I was asked by the Dongguan Foreign Bureau to teach them. Sadly, I cannot fit their demands into my day. I’ve bene lucky to narrate advertisements, wear watches for model shoots, test-drive new bicycles and play with new robotics before they reached their target audience or global factory floors. Daily life has been far from mundane here with oddities and pleasures as varied as can be. What’s around the next corner? Well, visas are quicker and easier to get, despite more rules and demands. It seems far quicker than when I first arrived. Sometimes, I doubt that I have done everything right, yet it seems clear and simple. Just a checklist. This week I received my medical report back. Now, I need just a few other items for the 2020/21 visa… That’s progress.
Bridges have been made and links that could prove lifelong. The west and east have collided in bizarre ways often forming a touch of the unique. There has been colour, rainbows and diversity amongst the traditional and the common. There have been flashes of light and inspiration. There have been days when solitude has been sought and there will be more, no doubt, but one thing I find, and have found throughout my time here, people are just that. Just simple down to earth, regular people going about their days, looking for peace and good opportunities to survive or better themselves. There are more cars and less bicycles, which shows that some people’s bank accounts and credit-ratings have improved. Quality of life needs balance, and with that the subway/underground system of Dongguan is projected to change from one line to seven lines.
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Words can say how thankful I am for my time here. I am enjoying life in different ways to others, and being who I want to be, when I want to be. I’m selfish or I’m sharing. I’m open or I am closed. I read or I watch. I write or I dictate. There are times to slip unseen, and times to lead an audience. It is good for the mind to be bored or alone. I truly believe that’s where creativity lies. It sits there waiting to be tapped and delivered to paper, computers or other outputs. I can wander from craft beer breweries to model car clubs to fusion and western food restaurants with ease and all of the time remain connected to modern and old China.
There is plenty of ugly in Dongguan, just like the rest of the world. To quote the 18th century French phrase, “ne saurait faire d’omelette sans casser des œufs“: You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Humans must learn from the stains and damage we have caused to our planet globally, whether disease or pollution. We can’t give in. Our cultures, our pride and our people need to fight on and find solutions. Just as #BlackLivesMatter, all lives matter – whether human or worm or bug or panda. Life must find a way. Dongguan is radically changing its energy consumptions, factory practices and the way its environment is being respected. This is good for all. Maybe, I should really put my words into action and finish studying towards the HSK (汉语水平考试 Hànyǔ Shuǐpíng Kǎoshì) course for the Chinese Proficiency Test.
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Dongguan has gone from a place with a handful of limited cinemas, to those with the IMAX, vibrating seats, private screens and many of the latest releases from the west. KTV bars make way for baseball batting cages, ten-pin bowling, archery cafes and all the latest crazes. The great thing is that with Wechat (born 2011), Alipay etc, you can leave your wallet behind and pay swiftly with ease using these simple electronic methods. Gone are the days of using equations and haggling to get a taxi a short distance. Piles of services are available via your phone, including electrical bills, water bills and Didi (driver and carshare service) is one such saving grace.
During these COVID-19 pandemic times, your phone provides your health code, advice in travel, guidance on health services and help. Dongguan’s local services for healthcare, private insurance and banking are on your fingertips, rather than a a few hours out of work. Life can be as fast or as slow as you wish. In 2010, Dongguan was named a National Model City for Environmental Protection and greenways, green belts and other greenery followed. There are hundreds of parks now, over 1200… it is easier than ever to stay healthy.
There is culture around us, old temples, modern pagodas, relics of time and shells of history. Dongguan’s landmarks are a tad tough to visit now. The Cwa humid subtropical climate here is far above the reported average annual temperature of 22.7 °C (72.9 °F). The rainfall is typical of the land below the Tropic of Cancer now. It is raining cats, dogs and occasionally elephants. Wellingtons and umbrellas are common sights these days, rather than the Dongguan Yulan Theatre, GuanYinShan (Budda mountain), Hǎizhàn bówùguǎn (海战博物馆 Opium War Museum) or Jin’aozhou Pagoda. Even a trip to my local coffee shop, Her Coffee, is like a swim in a river. It is blooming wet lately. As a Mancunian, I feel at home.
I’m here for education – to both teach and to learn. This city has hundreds of educational institutions, even Cumbria’s St. Bees are opening a school here. I’ve heard there are around 550 primary schools, 480 kindergartens and several universities now. To bump into a teacher amongst the 21,000 plus teachers is not unusual. Although it seems every second teacher works for one of the many Eaton House schools here. I’ve heard Tungwah Wenzel International School (TWIS) in Songshan Lake is one school to really watch. Like its neighbouring Huawei school, it is massive with around 1,000,000 square metres of surface area. I’ve seen the modern sports gyms, performance space and technology labs. It uses the latest gadgets and networking. It really is 21st century over there at Songshan Lake. Although Huawei have a German-style train-tram zipping around, piping back to older days. Dongguan University of Technology(DGUT; 东莞理工学院) is one of universities in the area meaning that you can educate beyond your teenage years here. It really is a place to learn. Watch out Oxford and Cambridge! Maybe that’s why Trump is always bad-mouthing China’s growth?
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From eating chicken anus, to two weeks of quarantine in XiHu Hotel, Dongguan has given me more time to turn the contents of my head to words. Now that I am ready to publish a novel, I need a publisher, but how to do this during a pandemic? I haven’t a clue, but I know one thing, the challenge will be tough and worth it. Nobody ever climbed a mountain to sit at the top and look down without seeing another mountain, right? At the end of the day, the sun sets only to rise again. Dongguan faced lockdown impeccably and other challenges, just as the world did and does. Chin up, keep going and let’s crack on.
Last night, I ate Korean barbecue with great people to celebrate a treble-birthday, followed by proof that I am terrible at ten-pin bowling and awoke today feeling optimistic. The world is often reported to be going through a pandemic-sized recession. As the world sailed a wave in 2008 and Dongguan grew from that recession, I will everyone to go on. Manufacture a bucket of optimism. Just like the strings of New Dawn Fades by Joy Division, there is darkness but remember these famous lines: It was me, waiting for me; Hoping for something more; Me, seeing me this time; Hoping for something else. In 2008, low-tech industry switched to the high-tech. Boomtime arrived. Chances are that one in five phones around the globe were made in Dongguan. Is your phone Vivo, Oppo, Honor or Huawei? It was probably made down the road from me. So, Dongguan is closer than you think.
Manchester isn’t any place I will visiting in person for some time, so it has to come to me via playbacks of Oasis gigs at Maine Road and the written word. Over the next few months, I plan to read the following Mancunian-connected books:
Hell is a City – Maurice Proctor; The Manchester Man – Isabella Varley Banks; Passing Time – Michel Butor; Magnolia Street – Louis Golding; Fame is the Spur – Howard Spring; Lord Horror – David Britton; The Emigrants – WG Sebald; Cold Water – Gwendolyne Riley; The Mighty Walzer – Howard Jacobson; Manchester Slingback – Nicolas Blincoe; Vurt – Jeff Noon; A Man’s Game: The Origins of Manchester City Football Club –Andrew Keenan; Mary Barton – Elizabeth Gaskell; Cranford – Elizabeth Gaskell; North and South – Elizabeth Gaskell.
“I was thinking about what you said; I was thinking about shame; The funny thing how you said; Cause it’s better not to stay” – The Last Broadcast – Doves
Jump On, Happy Now
How do! / 你好 (nĭ hăo) / Namaste / Welcome!
I recall Mr Jones at Chapel Street Primary School making a simple poem. It was wordplay on my name John. Jump on, happy now. So simple. So memorable. Like other school events. When I was young, our class went to Mam Tor and the Blue John Cavern in Castleton, Derbyshire. I remember very little other than giggling at the name Blue John. The cavern is named after a semi-precious mineral Blue John. The 250 million years old was and is mined for the purposes of jewellery. The cavern sits beneath Mam Tor, a rather tall hill, a 517-metre (1696ft) peak of the world famous Peak District. I never picked up any fluorite (with bands of a purple-blue or yellowish colour) but I do recall the French name of bleu-jaune (blue-yellow). So, my name went from blue to yellow. In China blue movies are called yellow movies.
Our class had walked the 4.8km up (3 miles) from a car park, where our coach awaited. In misty wet conditions we returned, a little soggy. The views across the Edale Valley and Kinder Scout were wasted on us. It was completely shrouded by clouds. The Derwent Moors were less than visible. We even walked to another cave, Windy Knoll, but the entrance was covered by loose rubble. That was invisible to us too. Still we’d climbed up the peak that means ‘Mother Hill’. The brittle shale and so-called shivering mountain also left us shivering in the damp and cold too. As our teeth chattered a teaching assistant rambled on about Bronze Age and Iron Age forts. To kids in a field, drenched head to toe, he mustered zero enthusiasm. We all had ideas of using the caves (Speedwell Cavern, Peak Cavern A.K.A. ‘The Devil’s Arse’ and Treak Cliff Cavern) as a kind of natural umbrella.
So, that was my first time to see the name John in a strange place. Our primary school used to have three Johns. John O’Neill and John Doherty, with myself. Recently, I played football with John Burns and John Crompton. My surname is Acton. So, here in China, we had John A, B and C at Murray’s F.C. It isn’t an unusual name. John is Jewish, or was. It coms from a word meaning ‘Graced by Yahweh’ – a kind of Samarian God. Jack, Jackie, Johnny and Jonathan all come from the name John. Jackie Chan is a wannabe John. Jô also comes from the name John but Jô as a Manchester City striker, I can’t take responsibility for him, and nor should the name John. Johns can be equally good or bad. Everton, not the football team, but the name also comes from the name John. Being a very biblical name, John has been mutated and transpired into Celtic (Ianto), Germanic, Romance, European, Arabic (يُوحَنّا), Hungarian, Albanian (Xhoni), Slavic (Ján) and other forms. One of the most common names in English-speaking countries is sticking around hard and fast.
Yahweh is or was a storm-and-warrior deity which explains why I like the rain a fair bit. That and being Mancunian – it’s a kind of Stockholm syndrome. Here in China, as the Dongguan rain lashes down, I can write Yuēhàn (约翰) into my phone to produce a local version of my name that sounds more German than Chinese. My Korean student Kim could write my name as Yohan (요한) and my Japanese student Leon could write my name as Yohane (ヨハネ). Then there are countless feminine forms around the world such as Jone, Johanna, Ghjuvanna and Sinéad.
John is mentioned countless times throughout religion, with the Gospel of John, First through to Third Epistles of John and the Book of Revelation by a certain Saint John the Divine scribbling something down. There were no blog pages in his time. Apocalypses have remained popular in fiction and non-fiction ever since. Well, until the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic. Gospel of John was the third sequel to the Gospel of Matthew. Mark and Luke were the other members of the Gospel boyband. The Gospel of John has much prattling and something to do with the raising of Lazarus and contrasts Judaism. It’s probably where Christianity broke away, circa AD90-110. Three faith-raising sermon letters (epistles) of John followed much like the Fast & The Furious franchise.
“Who’s that writin’? John the Revelator. Who’s that writin’? John the Revelator. Who’s that writin’? John the Revelator. Wrote the book of the seven seals” – John the Revelator, Blind Willie Johnson
Many kings and queens have taken on the various forms of the name John through time, with prophet John the Baptist (died 30AD-ish), John the Apostle (one of a dozen). John the Evangelist (an author type), John of Patmos (the Revelator/the Divine), John the Presbyter (open to interpretation), another John (father of Saint Peter etc), John of Antioch (a chronicler which is a kind of news reporter of the time), umpteen Pope Johns (at least 21 of them), and several Saint Johns. There are Saint John churches and places as diverse as Cornwall (a parish village with the nearby St John’s Lake SSSI), Malacca in Malaysia, the capital city of Newfoundland and Labrador and even the Church of St John-at-Hackney. Wherever a boat could sail, and a missionary could set up a parish, that’s where the name has reached. If you don’t believe me, take a glance at the maps of Antigua and Barbuda, Barbados, Dominica and Grenada. Oh, and there are ambulances displaying the saintly name: St. John Ambulance. Mighty Mouse was even a St. John Publications comic character.
Nicknames involving Johns area round us too. My Dad had a friend who was nicknamed ‘John the Ghost’ because of his pale look and I think had a few near misses with death in hid life. John the Hunchback isn’t as famous Quasimodo. Being a General and Politician in Roman times on the flanks of the Eastern Roman Empire wasn’t quite as romantic as being the protagonist of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. John “the Savage” features in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. John “OO” Fleming is a trance D.J. and his music could be heard on a portable speaker sat atop your very own Johnboat (an aluminium hunter-fishing boat). My mate John Petrie shares the name of Arbroath F.C.’s striker extraordinaire – he scored a record 13 goals in a 36-0 win. That’s something to mull over as you listen to former Meat Loaf and Marilyn Manson guitarist John 5. There are countless Johns to plug: I mentioned John Rabe and John Nichols before.
Whether in a campaign, a B-side on a Kylie Minogue with Robbie Williams song, a Giant Cave of Gilbratar, the John’s Langur (Semnopithecus johnii), a famous New York pizzeria, archaic phones, or a show about Tourette’s syndrome, the name John can be used for good or bad. Fritz John made an ultrahyperbolic partial differential equation that carries the name John’s equation. It was pretty bad for my eyes to see it and understand very little of it. Not all Johns make sense. I know that I don’t.
“Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail.” – ― John Donne, The Poems of John Donne (Volume 1)
The name John is popular in many ways. Master Chief Petty Officer John-117 from the video game Halo wasn’t an ideal role model for me but he did accompany far too many adolescents through early development blasting the hell out of crazy religious Covenant alien radicals. Almost as great as sending a Dear John letter to tell your loved one that they are a former loved one and now you have a new loved one. Writer Philip Jerome Quinn Barry wasn’t a John but in 1927 the New Yorker published his play called, yes, you guessed right, John. That play was unsuccessful. Bad John. Lil’ Wayne (2011) and Desireless (1988) didn’t write their songs of the same name, based on P.J.Q. Barry’s failed play. They sold around 2 million and 313,000 respectively.
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” – John Milton, Paradise Lost.
Other odd uses of the name John can mean someone who uses a prostitute, slang for a toilet (cheers America!), tropical storms and hurricanes, and there are about 13,400,137 Johns in the U.S.A. at any one time. That’s about one in every 25 Americans. On the flipside, John the Ripper is a program used to test the strength of a password. In Morse code John looks like this: .——….-. (which may be useless in the digital age). John Lennon and John F. Kennedy didn’t get any Morse code message of their fate. John R. “Johnny” Cash is one of my favourite Johns, in terms of talented Johns. John Paul Henry Daniel Richard Grimes is not.
Bizarrely the names Eoin, Evan, Yohannes, Ifan, Ioane, Hermes, Siôn, Janes, and Núño have origins in the name John. Jhon is also a real name. I guess somebody couldn’t type or spell, and it stuck. John has grace the rich and famous with numerous kings, Elton John, the late huge-nosed Gottfried John, Dame Olivia Newton-John and (was it personal?) R&B singer William Edward “Little Willie” John having a certain name. That 24-bar blues song Leave My Kitten Alone is so underrated. The Beatles and Elvis Costello copied it at some state too.
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter” – John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn and Other Poems
The name John is classic. It is a natural and wholesome formal name, refined and well at home in history and equally strong for the present day. It can represent the boring aspects of name history and the simple yet serious mature look of a person. Whether the name represents an author or an actor in Downton Abbey, the name John could likewise be a Canadian prime minister or a character in DC comics. John can be legend or literature, musician or theologian. The name John was once consistently popular in one of its many forms. Now newer names and international culture are heavily influencing naming across the globe. The name John, however, will not fade away.
Johnny Marr is from Manchester and spent some of his years in Ardwick. He probably wasn’t far from another famous John in Manchester. All of the above writing could easily have been a huge and tedious introduction to Manchester’s famous John Dalton. Born in Cumberland at a place called Eaglesfield (by Cockermouth), John Dalton headed for Manchester. He would go on to be a hugely influential chemist, physicist, and meteorologist. He made huge contributions to atomic theory research, the study of colour blindness and dissenting educationalists from church-backed establishments. He was radical.
Buried under Ardwick’s playing fields (former cemetery), Dalton’s legacies are far more than a statue-bust in Manchester’s town hall. The John Dalton Building of Manchester Metropolitan University houses the Faculty of Science and Engineering. There’s a statue of John Dalton outside. John Dalton Street connects Deansgate and Albert Square in central Manchester. There’s a bleu plaque at 36 George Street, his former residence. Dalton published many pieces including work on the Law of Multiple Proportions, Dalton’s Law of Partial Pressures, Daltonism (also known as colour blindness). He earned his Royal Medal amongst many plaudits and lived to study and research. Nowadays his name lives on through such terms as Dalton (S.I. unit), Daltonism, and the Dalton Minimum. The latter was a period of low sunspot count, representing low solar activity, possibly much like the City of Manchester’s exposure to sun at the peak of winter, right?
“John Dalton’s records, carefully preserved for a century, were destroyed during the World War II bombing of Manchester. It is not only the living who are killed in war.” – Isaac Asimov, Writer & Biochemistry professor
Pokhara footsteps.
Sawasdeekhap / Namaste / Welcome!
Kathmandu to Pokhara is a long and winding road. The Beatles didn’t sing about it though. The final stop of the 700NPR bus journey was on the edge of Pokhara (827-1740m) by the sports stadium. We checked in at 0100 on the 21st of January 2020, in the Obey Guesthouse, where Srirang had arranged to meet Livia, the angry hungry Hungarian from last year’s trek. I said hello, looked at the rooftop view and fell into a deep sleep. I slept like a baby. In the morning, a bit later, around 9am, I awoke. I stretched my legs, had a cold shower and dressed. I walked up the three floors to the rooftop. I looked south, trees and rooftops, east, a building obscured my view of more trees and rooftops. I walked up some steps to the next layer of the building. Standing on top of the building, my jaw dropped. I looked north, a little west and east. What a panorama! The prominent views of the tourism capital of Nepal are striking.
Pokhara is in the top left corner of the Seti Gandaki valley, if you look at the valley as football goalpost set. The mountains can rise over 6,500 metres across just 30 kilometres. You can see Dhaulagiri (8167m), Annapurna (6000m to over 8000m over several peaks), Manaslu (8163m), Machhapuchchhre A.K.A. Fishtail (6993m). Meanwhile Phew Tal lake sits at just 827m at the Lakeside area of the city. The moderate humid subtropical climate was just hovering around the low teens of 11°C, which made it feel very comfortable. At night, it fell into single figures. Very comfortable indeed. The World peace pagoda stands to the south, a cave full of bats lies to the north. Resorts, climbing shops, massage houses, spars, restaurants and lakeside boating are everywhere. Temples, shrines, gumbas, and forestry – serve the population that sits under half a million. The sprawling metropolitan city is far bigger than Kathmandu, and it feels far greener. This is a city that has survived much hardship losing the great India to Tibet trading route, following the Indo-China war in 1962. However, tourism has grown since. The British Gurkha Camp and Indian Gorkha (Gurka) camps are here. Many education sites are here. Some major businesses are based here. The airport (soon to be replaced) and roads have regular and easy to find transport links across the country. Oh, and yoga is everywhere.
For dinner, I ate a masala curry, with roti bread. For lunch, I skipped it. For breakfast I tucked into omlette and a peanut dish with spices. Alu patthar was needed alongside the breakfast – a lovely potato bread. Just like the city of Pokhara, every area and every meal was geared for every kind and every taste. Pokhara’s lakeside area was akin to Blackpool lights in England, but smaller, and much quieter. By now the news of the coronavirus Covid-19 was emerging into Pokhara. Sellers on the streets offered a selection of fruits, “Sir, pineapple? Bananas? Ganga?” I declined all, before later watching City beat Sheffield Utd on my phone, as the temperature hit 2°C.
On the 22nd, we set out to the TIMS office, which doubles up as ACAP (Annapurna Circuit) entry – and the Nepal Tourism Board (all flanked by the ill-fated Visit Nepal 2020). TIMS and the ACAP are essential for trekking the region. The national park has strict control. On the day we visited, we were told that the highest we could trek, was Manang due to heavy snowfall – and missing trekkers on the Annapurna Base Camp trail. Under clear blue skies, and an air temperature of 20°C, we entered the doorway to news crews, cameras and stressed looking trekkers complaining that they were airlifted out of Annapurnas region without choice. They would have to pay once again, if they went in. And, they had to get their insurance companies to pay the helicopter rescue fees. The perils of trekking in full motion. Many trekkers seemed oblivious to the lost reported guides and trekkers. We answered questions with the ACAP and TIMS before passing over 2000NPR and 3000NPR respectively. We’d essentially agreed to take zero risks, and trek only as far as Manang. To me, I was fine. I just wanted to get onto the trail and see the sights, meet the people and enjoy a safe walk with good views. I decided there and then that not reaching the pass or completing the Annapurna Circuit was fine. It is what it is, as my older brother Asa, always says.
Pokhara is a very spaced out city. It’s relaxed and very green. There is so much to see and do. It is at the top of the league in terms of watching people go by, and enjoying the sounds of birdcalls. Nature is all around you, whether it is kites swooping overhead, tropical birds chirping in the morning or the croak of frogs. Then, there are many friendly and cute dogs, cats and the occasional free-roaming cow ambling along the roadsides.
With the terrible news coming out of Wuhan, of a pneumonia-causing virus, I became hyper-aware of people around me. Every sneeze and cough triggered a twinge of worry. The spate of deaths in China may have been a long way away, but in my mind, it could have been much closer. The spread of such trouble, just like heavy snowfall could easily have remained an ongoing worry for our trek.
On the 23rd, we checked out from the Obey Guesthouse (1000NPR per night), had breakfast and caught a taxi to the bus station in Pokhara. We departed Pokhara at 1135 for Besi Shahar at 1700hrs. Besi Shahar is only 760m in elevation. On arrival we stayed at Manange Chautara – Hotel Kailash. 200NPR a night, plus food and drink, we went to bed and readied ourselves for the walk. We were in no hurry, because we could only go as far as Manang. I had to leave Nepal by February the 15th, so that was settled. Take it all in, enjoy the walk. Rather than break the camel’s back, the next day, we walked just 7km to Khudi, staying at the Maya hotel, alongside the river and bridge. On the short 3 hour trek, we’d had brews at the ACAP check point, watched Himalayan Grey Langur monkeys for a while and not rushed at all.
The journey had started. How about your journey?
Robots in disguise.
你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do / S’mae / Namaste
For every minute that passes, a football pitch is lost in the Amazon. Tick. Tock. Tick. Well, rather an area of trees that could cover a football pitch. Is that why Brazil are so good at football? Are they chopping and sawing away trees in order to beat Argentina and co? Of course, the environment and conservation in general are taking epic beatings. It isn’t all doom and gloom.
Britain has flowery roads, replacing lost meadows; Sir David Attenborough is reaching the youth of today at music festivals; Sky are aiming to plant 3 billion trees before the year 2050; farmland is being explored as potential new forests; farms diversification for a public benefit; Shanghai is dividing litter and rubbish into four types with view to recycling more (although education is needed); Yangtze rehabilitation schemes are in place; actually, beyond the gloom there are some pretty selfless and amazing projects happening.
#QuicklyDividingRubbishSendsShanghaiCitizensCrazy (#快被垃圾分类逼疯的上海居民)
Yet dead whales are being found with 40kg of plastic in their bellies; Japan is whaling again; the Antarctic ice is falling faster then ever before; life is changing for many, it is getting warmer; poisoned farmlands; farms that need actions now; famine; or the Australian condemnation of threatened species over farmland necessity. Jakarta’s residents will sue their government due to bad air pollution. Surely, knowing a little how taxes work, they will realise that they will sue themselves. And, didn’t they cause the air pollution too? #SetorFotoPolusi – oops.
Stable ice may be shrinking fast globally. Israel may be ready to start a war with Iran. China may be ignoring sanctions and buying a few fighter jets from Russia. Radioactive magma may erupt from the Yellowstone national park in USA. The Ring of Fire may trigger a huge earthquake and the Phillipines is on high alert.
Conservation and envioronmental protection needs more. The world needs to pull together. Many great projects need government and world body backing. That’s the hard part. Some governments are petrol-backed and busy building walls, or destroying cultures using cultural genocide…
Meanwhile in China, many characters with their flyers have collared me this week. It is normal. Most cannot speak English as they thrust their gym advertisement leaflet into my chubby hands. This week, an exception, a man with clear English and knowledge about the U.K., “London is a big city” he shouted. He slammed his body in front of my pathway. It impeded me crossing at the green for pedestrian dancing man. The red man appeared. More solid. Less inviting. Cars quickly prevented me dashing over the wall. “You could move into an investment opportunity tomorrow,” he smiled through words that barely left his immobile jaw. His eyes beamed expecting an instant commitment to his probably well-tested sales pitch. He caught my apprehension and carried on, “You can move in tomorrow.” He then delivered many words in English, too fast for me to understand. I interrupted him, and said, “I’ll take two.” His face lit up. He seemed over the moon, and then a thought triggered across his eyes manifesting in one word, “Really?” So, here I stated, “No, thank you. I need to go across the road and have a coffee. Goodbye. Enjoy your day.” Did he lose face? Only to me – his pack of colleagues didn’t understand. He asked for this. The green man flashed after 90 seconds and off I went. Straight to the sanctuary of Starbucks. Well, it was Independence Day.
This weekend I went to Shenzhen (44.5RMB train ticket each way), jumped on the subway (7RMB) and went to watch football at the Xixiang Stadium. Shēnzhèn Péngchéng (深圳鹏城) faced Sìchuān Jiǔniú (四川九牛), City Football Group’s Chinese partnership club. On the day, it appears, UBTECH of Shenzhen have changed the club’s name to Sichuan UBTECH. City’s partnership club had no away tickets available. They had to be ordered in advance, so I went to the home end. On passing through a metal detector security gate, I was handed a ticket for free. Not bad. The stadium was built around a running track, with only one stand in the east (I believe). The southern end displayed the China flag. The north faced onto a hill. The park around the stadium was entirely devoted to sports (basketball, racket sports and swimming) easy to see. A huge netting cast over the western end of the park. Presumably a golf driving range housed the emitting clinks of balls on clubs. There could have been pterodactyls there.
With the sun strong, and the temperature around 32°C, the game kicked off. Sporting a Puma kit in white, the Sichuan team soon turned the shirt translucent with sweat. A water break after 22 minutes gave the visiting team a kind of nudist look. The bench dressed in all-black gave stark contrast. All looked soaked with sweat, as was in the unwelcoming concrete stand. The 3,000 faded seat stadium could have been called the Bird’s Nest, due to all the dried crap on the floor from the birds’ nests overhead. I was trying to figure out if the team had changed name and abandoned their traditional yellow kit for this game, or forever. No-one that I spoke with had a clue. The board displayed the name Sichuan UBTECH in Chinese. The new away shirt was all white with a sky blue sponsor.
Half-time refreshments involved water, or water. The only option was free and served from a hand-pump over a 20L water bottle. In the heat the water was certainly needed. With this I talked with a fan called Luke who was very familiar with Manchester City goalkeeper history. Hart was mentioned, Ederson too, and which was best, which was a Given, according to him. The fans mulled around, smoked a few cigarettes and talked. The teams reemerged and out came the orchestrated beats of a drum and megaphone induced Olé, Olé, Olés – from bullfighting to south China. I sat back and reflected on seeing a goal scored by the Shenzhen team, where the striker went through the defender… and then the net itself gave him a lovely Spider-Man promotion feel.
Before the game there had been red scarfs held up in the home end, to no tune and certainly no hymns like “You’ll never walk alone.” They did have some songs and chants but I couldn’t follow most. Apart from when they were 1-0 up, they’d sing “Èr bǐ líng” [二比零] which means 2 against 0. That is a weird thing to say. Ttally unlike “C’mon City” or “We want seven!” The away end had a fair bit of noise, with the rat-a-tat of inflatable cheering sticks being quite visible. I love going to a football game, and I’ll happily watch the likes of Rhayader Town, Hyde Utd or in this case Sichuan UBTECH. My friend Chris Howells, a super photographer back in Aberystwyth enjoys the passion of the players and the crowd atmosphere. I’ve learnt from him to spend some time watching the people in the stands. It is a wonderful and quite relaxing experience. As summer swallows swooped over the field during yet another waterbreak, I thought to myself, a regular thought that I have, I need to watch more football from the stands.
The Chinese Football Association Division Two League (Simplified Chinese: 中国足球协会乙级联赛) is the third tier of domestic football. It is split into a northern and a southern group. The top 4 clubs from each segment play off for promotion to the Chinese Football Association Division One League. Bottom of the league means play-offs or automatic relegation to the confusingly named 2019中国足球协会会员协会冠军联赛 which translates as the Chinese Champions League. These two teams reflected mid and upper table, with the Sichuan club bidding for promotion at the first chance following their takeover.
Their new signing, number 32 came on in the 32nd minute and Yang Jun Jie seemed like a kind of Jamie Pollock player. The team were 1-0 down – after 26 minutes, and playing calm football, against the opposition and the late-afternoon heat. They soon went 2-0 down before a spirited second half, which sadly for the visitors didn’t result in an equaliser. An official report can be found here. Of the 600 fans in the stadium 200 had entered the away end. 2000km away games, in the third tier demand a bit of respect.
再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye / Hwyl Fawr / Dhanyabaad / Alavidā
The £80 season ticket.
你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do / S’mae / Namaste
“Mr John, what’s your favourite season?”, Billy asked. His tiny frame jiggled around with excitement as he happily danced the question from his chirpy mouth. He looked in anticipation of my answer. In his eyes, I think I sensed he wanted me to answer winter. He could see that I was sweating from the 35°C heat. I have been quite vocal about my dislike of summer and heat since around March when the mercury hit 30°C for the first time this year.
To his surprise, I could see it in his eyes, I did not reply spring, summer nor autumn. The expected word of winter did not disembark my mouth. “Billy, I like the football season best.”
The response was quite international, “Huh?!” One simple sound of confusion with calculators flashing in his young eyes. And smoke billowing from his ears. His thought processes however surprised me. He understood, “You like the start and end of football games in the year but not no games.” Spot on. Grab your A-stars now and go directly to university. How perceptive of you Billy.
Now, flash forwards a day to older-than-eight-year-olds. During a conversation, I was asked which season I like best. I gave the same reply. Nothing. Not a single question or notaion of understanding. The boy in grade 8/junior school 2 was flummoxed. Uterrly mystified and totally foxed. So, rather than let him avoid the subject, I asked if he understood. He replied, “of course.” Very confident. So, I said, “please explain.” I didn’t expect much more information to come. The body language of the boy shown he had been thrown, possibly flabbergasted and bewildered. There was a rabbit in the headlights. He opened his mouth, “In winter it snows, so there is no football. In summer, it is too hot, so there is no football. In spring, it is too wet, so there is no football. In autumn it is windy a dry, so this is when the football season is.” I liked his answer, it had a kind of mathematican’s logic to it. I explained the traditional football seasons of Europe run from August to May. There are variations of course. I said summer football is a huge outlier and probably because the weather is too hot, the fields (pitches) too firm. His reply was, “Well, why is the World Cup in summer?” I said it probably boils down to availability and less interruption to less leagues. I said the winter World Cup of 2022 in Qatar will be an outlier.
My years have never been measured by lunar calendars, Gregorian dates, academic planners or such. No, I opted for cards handed out with the Manchester Evening News’s The Pink years ago, and other wonderful football season date lists. That first date tunnels utter anticipation until the close season becomes pre-season. Pre-season dates are foreplay to the full activity of the football season proper. Waiting for the football season is a time in itself. Here shirts are released, players exchanged, cold, bought and loaned in or out. Words of war are spoke and expectations set, high or low. The battle is far from underway. The Community Shield is looked at as a friendly, unless you’re in and then it is a trophy, unless you lose. There are contradictions in the making from supporters everywhere. Prices of season tickets, games, and all the accessories of the devout football fan are bickered over. “I won’t buy that” becomes an impulse buy. Quarells placed on pause since May (or June) slide to on. Fantasy football teams are prepped. Bookies collect their bets and forms.
TV subscriptions and schedules are juggled around bills and holiday plans. The ripple of every change is mirrored by the frantic actions of a football fan cancelling a wedding in Benidorm in favour of a weekend wedding at Bolton’s Travelodge. Well, Bolton host your team that weekend. Aberystwyth Town’s last season kit is folded away, and you’re pestering Steve Moore at the clubshop on a daily basis. You’re pinging off text message after twitter message after Whatsapp group query, “When is the new Aber Town top out?” You know that by the time your £80 season ticket is printed, you’ll have the famous black and green on your chest but can’t be sure you’ll be wearing it before Gresford Athletic or Llanidloes Town visit. You’ll dig out your oldest kit and call it retro those days. When is the Nathaniel MG Cup Round Two draw? You overlook the first batch of round dates. It matters not to you.
This pre-season I will travel further than before for City’s four preparation games. Taking in the Premier League Trophy in Nanjing and Shanghai, a game at Hong Kong Stadium versus Kitchee SC and then the EuroJapan Cup game in Yokohama against F. Marinos. Taking in a trip to Japan excites me. Time to do some planning.
Former City Manager Manuel Pellegrini returns to China having coached Hebei Fortune. Former sky blue hero, Pablo Zabaleta could face City. I’ve paid 288RMB ticket for each game on mainland China. Not a tenner in the sterling world, but not too expensive considering the tickets can equate to the below:
£71/£122 via ManCity.com. Newcastle Utd or Wolves v Manchester City. Fri, 19 Jul 00:00. Shanghai’s Hongkou Stadium.
£43/£65. West Ham United v Manchester City. Tue, 16 Jul 00:00.Nanjing Olympic Sports Centre.
I’m told my ticket in Yokohama was for a similar price to the 288RMB, although I’ve seen some weird four-figure numbers banded about too. This all makes Aberystwyth Town’s £80 season ticket look good value.
再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye / Hwyl Fawr / Dhanyabaad / Alavidā
Delete social media? Bye to glaciers?
你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do / S’mae / Namaste
The trouble with the internet is us. Us. Them and us. Me. Click of a finger, bubble butts and exposed cultures. One day we’ll all be preserved in the London Museum. Relics, with no use. Everyone wants their piece of celebrity status on the internet or so it seems. Actually, no, they don’t. The people who have too much time to avoid looking for jobs, doing stuff that matters and being useful can be keyboard warriors. Just like me. Some spout off about this, that and the other. Some offer informed views or share their photographic talents. Others slip in their technical skills or artworks. Many view contents not really suitable for children. Don’t lie. Your internet history has been downloaded – the moment you clicked this post. It can be done. I have friends in high places, Huawei… then there are trolls, internet bullies, lies, spies and down right spies. Even Part-Man-Part-Cloth-Part-Stone, Donald Trump is allowed access to the internet.
Reactions to news, events, celebrities falling arse about face on Love Island or some such other lighter-than-light-floating-turdish entertainment can be shared. News and politicians can be slated, viewed and opinions slammed onto an electronic plain of imagination. Today’s thoughts become yesterday’s angst and we get to laugh at our previous electronic Dear Diary entries, when they pop up on Facebook as memories. Only these electronic reminders of something that happened before are flung at us digitally. I like writing. I’m not good at it. It is my ambition. I am writing more and more, because if you pile enough shit in the right place, somebody will notice. Why hasn’t The Guardian called me yet? The conservative government are gaining strenth from social division. Few engage the conversation needed to oust them. Maybe I can write some more crap and engage someone, somewhere. Unlikely.
Maybe I need to frame a crime. I’ve been studying detective shows and novels for years. I will train a wild Western chimpanzee (from Liberia) to murder. The victim will be a captive-bred but escaped stray Eurasian lynx from Iran. The weapon of choice will be supplied by Britain to Saudi Arabia and found in Yemen before being filed down to be used for the evil act. However, is it evil? No, the Western chimpanzee must end the life of the Eurasian lynx in order to prevent the death of an orphaned Muslim kid abandoned in Syria, because the transgender adoptive parents from Liverpool and Manchester were in the gender-neutral toilets of Starbucks – the Sana’a branch.
Who would you choose to support? The chimpanzee problem has multi-layed problems. An American pet chimpanzee once bit someone in Connecticut. Not everyone likes Travis. The Eurasian aspect gives a kind of cross-culture problem for the Eurasian lynx. Then, you must consider the location, race, and culture differences. What will the journalistic bit-part character Jeremy Corbyn do? Especially, when he finds that his salary is being paid for my MegaCorp based in its new office of Riyadh. What if this was a story inspired by real events? How would you react? Twitter. You know it. Two web browsers open, one for social media, and one watching kittens dance suggestively to the music of Gnarls Barkley. It wouldn’t be an easy scenario for a newspaper to report about.
“We don’t want paedophiles round here! Unless they’ve really worked on their choreography…” – 2009’s version of me, marked the death of Michael Jackson with an immature and tasteless comment on Facebook.
My Aunty Susan rightly put me in my place regarding subsequent jokes copied and pasted from recent messages marked the tenth anniversary of Michael Jackson’s plastic nose being melted down. Even today, it is amazing how much respect Michael Jackson gets, despite the lawsuits and continual abuse allegations. Too much time is spent pandering to the needs of his estate and less talk or attention is given to the victims of abuse. Just like Jimmy Carr and other seemingly heartless comedians, sometimes something controversial needs saying or writing, even if the person doing so completely disagrees with it. Otherwise, we end up with a nation of Love Island watchers, completely devoid of conversation. England is becoming American on that front.
The bitter taste of supposed jokes about Michael Jackson still hangs in the air. It doesn’t mean that I am promoting said topic. I was quite shocked to see my words from a decade ago. Isn’t it time more voices condemned his music to the vaults of history? The talent and contribution to musical arts needs eradication through choice, not through censorship. The voice for promoting and celebrating Michael Jackson needs an airing too. He could have been innocent of historic child sex abuse. To quote MJinnocent.com there could have been “many inconsistencies, contradictions and outright lies being told about Michael Jackson” or not. Just like Operation Yewtree it is a mess, and one that may result in a desire by society to rid the worst types of crimes: child sex abuse. Or, we could do a Spotify and just add a mute button. Either way, the conversation cannot be ignored, because like historic sexual abuse cases, today there are in all probability a huge number of systemic problems likely being ignored by the top brass, globally.
Despite all of this, life is finding a way to eradicate these problems. Berlin is baking. Rome is melting. Spain is on fire. Britain is writing letters of complaint. The heatwave was warned to all. It arrived. It cooked. It killed. Like the Spice Girls it will keep coming again and again, and not just from the Sahara. Of course colimate change could be lies or truth. Greenland may be melting at an unprecedented level. Fake truth? Volcanoes going from dormant to active may be stronger reasoning. Is the weather stable near you? Are you experiencing snowfall or the falling of fires from the sky? Snow in June, in Italy? Are 8 billion tonnes of ice being lost from the Himalayas year-on-year? Do we need the third polar ice cap in the Himalayas? Is Greenland a safe place to travel? Should we still call Mont Blanc, Mont Blanc?
“Of course, snowfall can happen in mountain areas in June. But if global warming exists this shouldn’t happen anymore.” – Dr Marco Poletto, Geologist
If the world is warming, are you seeing flash floods and thunderstorms more frequently? Are these storms much more violent in nature? How many trees do we need to re-plant? Do sewerage works need re-designing? Should roads absorb more water? Do zero emission cities work? Are we thinking about the environment too slowly? Are European glaciers due to be extinct? Is plastiglomerate pretty? So many questions. Too many. Will mushrooms save the day?
“Let’s go to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint, and wait for this all to blow over…” – Shaun of The Dead
再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye / Hwyl Fawr / Dhanyabaad / Alavidā
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