Back in UB

On the Saturday I rested, trying to slough off as much jet lag as possible and only the left the apartment twice to go to the outside toilet (a pit in the ground with pee iced-over wooden boards to stand on while crouching and doing the business, one patch of ice you definitely do not want to be slipping on). On the Sunday, I woke up early, but finally rose a few hours later. At 07.48 I went to the toilet and as I finished, at the last moment, I saw a squadron of geese flying over, five in total. I would have thought they would have gone south by now, but as revealed over the coming days this was an unseasonably mild winter, only reaching the depths at night - there isn't even that much snow. The squadron leader emitted a periodic 'honk-honk', and the flapping of wings had the sound of a bicycle trundling through what snow there was, so I thought at first that it was man tooting his bike horn as he cycled past. Later, I found it was pipsqueak dog next door doing that. All the same, I've seen crows before and heard their distinctive cackle in a Mongolian winter but geese are new to me and were even more strange in the early morning twilight.
In the afternoon, Altaa and I ventured into town. The terrible mist lay like a shroud over the city centre in the distance and plunging into the polluted maelstrom, the smog clung to the lungs like toffee caught between the teeth.
The pollution varies in places. The fantastic blue sky near our home was torn by a the powdery white ribbons of jetliner exhaust as the aeroplanes arced throughed the endless sea.
We live to the east of the industrial district and the prevailing wind blows the unfiltered smoke west, but today it decided to prove the exception and the dust in the air was thicker than usual. The sun was blood red; it hung in the sky as a perfectly delineated orb, but not blinding until I was closer to the city centre. Last night, Altaa and I went to look for a more suitable apartment such as one with running water. She had found one with a fantastic bathroom and decent kitchen and lounge at a reasonable price, but the pollution was palpable, even inside and the streetlights outside shone dull like distant lighthouses. This was the deciding factor for me as, despite all the plus points, including the furniture thrown in as part of the rent deal, I could not relax in an apartment where I felt I was being slowly suffocated. UB is polluted everywhere, but some places are comprehensively worse than others.
As for work, I am the editor of the UB Post, the only privately owned English language newspaper in Mongolia. I am under no illusions. I got the job because I was the most realistic in respect of my wages (i.e. the cheapest) and really it is more of a sub-editor's position. We produced my first newspaper as editor last night and it is quite a fine feeling. I am the first in the office every morning and certainly I have more incentive to do so now I am earning my crust, rather than just being a volunteer. It happens that I am also the youngest employee, at 24, but I try not to show it.

Mission to Mongolia

In real hours my journey to Mongolia lasted 24 hours, but unlike Jack Bauer, this was not the longest day of my life (even if the time difference officially elongated the duration to 32 hours, Thursday night to Saturday morning). The 13 hour wait in Moscow Sheremetyevo Airport waiting for the connection flight was not as arduous as it sounds as I slept on a bench with my beanie hat as a pillow. I was also prepared this time with ample reading material. Still, the hours could tick by awfully slowly. Getting on my flight to UB, I went to my seat, only to find it occupied by a toothy, old Mongolian who wanted to sit with his wife and adult daughter. It wasn't as if he was cruelly sited at the other end of the plane. I 'was' 11C, he 12E, but crucially C was an aisle seat and E was packed in by the window (I usually prefer aisle seats on flights). It was a fait accompli as he already occupied the place so I went and sat next to a smart-suited, walrus-moustached Italian (as deduced by his activity magazine) with a nasally-inspired chesty cough and an academic air (under questioning some hours later from a Mongolian he revealed himself to be from Bologna). The family soon moved once airborne as behind them three boisterous, young Mongolians got tanked on vodka, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Another trouble with the window seat was stashing my holdall under the seat as obviously there is a lack of space on one side. I couldn't put it in the overhead locker because whereas Aeroflot's European fleet of Airbuses has capacious lockers, its Asian outriders have a space barely big enough to fit a koala. Taking advantage of the night view outside, I noticed a thick haze lingering over most of Moscow's districts, blurring the blaze of artificial light (what must that do for Google Earth). The pilot announced over the patchy, scratchy intercom that we had 1hr 25 mins flight time remaining and that we were currently flying over Brazil (I wondered why the flight was taking so long). Approaching Ulaanbaatar, specks of yellow dotted the landscape and I tried to identify any distinguishing marks to make out if it was car's headlights, a wayside cafe or a ger tent on fire. Altaa having informed me that she had a fish ready for my meal once I arrived, I scrupulously conducted myself accordingly to Aeroflot's inflight supplements, choosing the chicken over the fish on the Europe leg and the beef over the fish on the Asian leg, though the latter had tuna filings amongst the salad. Landing, we were informed it was -28 degrees celsius outside. Make of that what you will.

Eastward ho!

My preparations for today's departure to Mongolia remain on course. By the time I return, Britain will be a different place, not least because Tony Blair will no longer be prime minister. So in honour of this, I have adapted Elvis Costello's Oliver's Army. Enjoy.
(Grand piano intro, preferably in white and in situ in ivory tower)
Don't start that talking/
I could talk all night/
The Orangemen go sleepwalking/
While I'm putting the world to rights/
For our ID card information/
Have you got yourself an occupation?

Tony's Army is here to stay/
Tony's Army is on its way/
And I would rather be anywhere else/
But here toda-a-ay

There was a Gordon Brown/
He didn't crack a smile/
But it's no laughing party/
When you've been on the murder mile/
All it takes one itchy trigger/
One more little/
One white young figure. (our boys in Iraq)

Tony's Army here to stay/
Tony's Army is on its way/
And I would rather be anywhere else/
But here today/
Oh-oh-oh-oh oohohoh

Afghanistan is up for grabs/
London is full of Arabs/
We could be in Palestine/
Over by that Iraqi line/
With the boys from the Mersey and the Thames and the T-y-y-yne/
But there's no danger/
It's a professional career/ (the army)
It could all be arranged/
With just a word in Mr Churchill's ear/
If you're out of luck or out of work/
We could send you to Johannesbu-urg

Tony's Army is here to stay/(Jean Charles de Menezes)
Tony's Army is on its way/
And I would rather be anywhere else/
But here today/
And I would rather be anywhere else/
But here today/
And I would rather be anywhere else/
But here toda-ay/
Oh oh oh oh/
oh oh oh oh.

(the last four lines of the final main verse relate to Blair's craven donation of a bust of Churchill from No.10 Downing Street to the White House, plus the propaganda spiel, while the last two lines of it relate to an isolated Colin Powell being sent in 2002 to the Kyoto follow-up Johannesburg conference being forced to stay that the USA would disagree with everything else the world prorposed, even after the world had agreed to focus on aid development rather than climate change. The rest of the song is pretty much self-explanatory).

There are other songs which have satirical value. Monty Python's Money Song for Gordon Brown (e.g. "There is nothing quite as wonderful as money/ There is nothing like a newly minted pound.) or Imagination's Just An Illusion with George Bush, his vice-president, Tony snow (White House spokeman) and Paul Wolfowitz (now at World Bank, architect of Iraq invasion) bodypopping on an iceberg that had just broken off from a melting Antartica. This could focus on many things such as CNN's declaration of Al Gore as president in 2000, educational policy, climate change denial, the scale of Hurricane Katrina or the mounting body count in Iraq(e.g. with applause from a military academy "Only in my dreams/ I'll turn you on, here for just a moment/ then you're gone/ It's just an illusion" the rising bodybag totals). Other songs could be Blondie's Atomic with Blair being taken to bed a pointy nuclear missile and serenaded by a singing Sellafield with a big crack down its side (e.g. "Make me tonight/ make it right") or Garbage's I Think I'm Paranoid for Kim Jong-il (e.g. "I think I'm paranoid/ and complicated" or his choreographed crowds singing "All I want is you."). All these songs however, can more or less be played straight without adaptation and so you can listen to them at your own leisure with your own ideas, but Costello's 1970s parody of mercenaries from Britain as a latter-day Cromwell's army needed a bit of updating.
On to Mongolia for me.

Snow time

Ah, wonderful snow. It was good to see a dusting of icing sugar across the landscape before I go to Mongolia where there will be tons of it.

Away day at home

On last Saturday I made the voyage up to Newcastle. It was to see Newcastle play West Ham and I was filled with thinking of all the outcomes and permutations of the match. On the way up, I saw further signs of the tumultuous winds that had beset the UK. Anderson air-raid style shelters for the sheep were dotted around the fields, but one had been uprooted and blown on top of another. Several fields along, fallen haystacks lay in a rumbustious heap, instead of the ordinary neat stacks one usually sees of them because of the wind; either that or it was an untidy farmer. The benefits of saving floodplains for their purpose instead of overlaying them with housing development was plain to see as shimmering water of a deep blue hue (almost such as I've seen in Mongolia) covered the grass and glistened beneath the midday sun.
I had a good seat, not too far from the pitch, and the chair even had armrests. It was marked by a sign remembering Gordon J. Batty (any relation to a former Newacstle player?) and ahead of me were two seats ostensibly belonging to the Royal Norwegian Consulate. It was such a well-to-do section that at one point I was asked to sit down. It was an exciting game though not always for the right reasons. The West Ham fans were really enthusiastic and loud all the way up in the upper tier, second only to Newcastle's away fans in their passion from football followers I've seen around. They had good reason to cheer in the first half as for the first half hour Newcastle's team were as bad as West Ham were purposeful, the latter running up a 2-0 scoreline, prompting the Hammers fans to taunt Roeder "Sacked in the morning, you're getting sacked in the morning." The one consolation was two West Ham players colliding with each other which kicked off a fracas between them, then one of those players, still berating his colleague, unwittingly ran into another West Ham player. After about 4o minutes players, Newcastle began to rise in the ascendancy, crowned with an incredible goal by James Milner just before half-time. It was controversial because Scott Parker was offside but not deemed to be interfering with play, even though Alan Curbishley said afterwards, Parker dummied the ball fooling the goalkeeper. I would say these things iron themselves out over the course of a season or sometimes from game to game. There is talk of temporarily demoting Uriah Rennie because of it. Now Rennie could fill a football field with his ego, but people should not talk about referees consistently applying the law if the punishment is not consistently applied to referees who do not do so. When it's for Newcastle people kick up a fuss; when it's against Newcastle nobody seems to care.
While Newcastle were much more progressive and coherent in the second half (simple things such as not taking free kicks before your own players are ready) in going forward, the defence became in equal measure kamikaze; it was extremely disquieting that our defence not only passed the ball to the opposition, but did so in our own penalty area! Only a combination of losuy West Ham finishing and good goalkeeping prevented the cession of more goals to the Hammer's cause. Throughout Roy Carroll was booed for his time wasting, but he did not desist, being reminded to time waste every time he picked up the ball. He was almost made to pay for it though. For one Magpie free kick, I focused on Luis Boa Morte for some reason in his penalty area and sure enough as the ball was whipped he handled it within his arm. Penalty! Surprising Obafemi Martins chose not to take it, so Solano resumed his penalty duties and duly scored. 2-2! That was how it ended.
Scott Parker ran his heart out as usual, Milner was always impressive. For much of the game, Kieron Dyer was not at the races (Blaydon or otherwise). Despite being a pipsqueak when marking Carlton Cole (Cole looked like a giant), Steven Carr grew steadily in authority in this, his return match from lenghty injury. I became apprehensive when Shay Given was injured to be replaced by Steve Harper. My only previous live experience of Harper between the sticks was at White Hart Lane where, among other things, he kicked his goal clearance into touch every single time, thereby instantly conceding possession to the opposition. The effect of being at home seemed to inspire him to less negative tactics and he made a brave block right at the death. Oba Martins plugged away honourably, but looked tired and so wasn't as electric as his pace is known to be. He has really slotted into the North-East culture though. Whereas most foreign imports wear gloves as a bare minimum, Martin dispenses with these and wears a short-sleeve shirt. This being January in Newcastle with occasional showers. What a guy!

Friday night, Saturday morning

Last Friday, I saw a whole host of friends in London, starting at Lynnie's place with the return of the Greek (Mark) in Bethnal Green and then we moseyed on down to Brick Lane for a dinner. accosted by various street restauranteurs and entrepreneurs, we settled on one that was near a place somebody knew. Mel put one of them straight when we said "Could you go away please? We need time to think." A thorough curry followed. One amusing point was when Lynnie's friend Clare fell off her chair by sitting too close to the edge of it. Lucky she didn't pull the tablecloth with her. Tom resorted to breaking his police code of conduct at the end. I was shocked and appalled, but might have partaken in what disappeared behind the backs of the staff had the brand not been so odious. We made our way onto a moderate nightclub, which didn't have great music, but did have patio heaters (which in terms of carbon footprint is, I guess, bad, but it did allow us to talk at normal levels). I had never set eyes knowingly on a patio heater before, believing them to be underground heating systems beneath the patio. We left when the brisk chill could no longer be tolerated.
I slept over at Lynnie's. When I awoke at 7.50am, I had an accident in the washroom. As I bent down to sup some water from the taps, in the semi-dark I headbutted the transparent shelf directly above the taps. It could have been worse than a dent on my forehead and a chip off the shelf, since the protrusion was made of glass. Suffice to say I was quite woken up after that. I rolled up my sleeping bag, took my rucksack and food supplies and was out the house by 8.10am, everyone else firmly under covers.

A shot of glory

One of my friends, tom Jenkins, was in the audience on 'Question Time' last night. He didn't get to ask his question and he was right at the back in the corner and all programme I was scanning the audience for him but could not see him. And then, as the programme began its music coda and the camera panned back, there he was, for five seconds, clapping away and glancing back at the camera. It puts my four seconds on Mongolian national television into perspective, though mine, also a crowd scene, was specifically edited rather than just a camera pulling back as it panned. Tonight I'll see him and get to ask him what he wanted to ask.
Last night, I was thwarted in getting to London to see another friend, Jon Williams, by the high winds. This was dramatically brought home when, as I walked to the train station, on the other side of the road a shop hoarding above the shop window was ripped off by the wind and clattered to the pavement. Luckily no-one was under it or injured. The train station was completely shut down operationally and my dad managed to get the last train back from London, getting in at about 5.50pm. Two desk officials remained behind to tell people about the situation. Thankfully, the winds have now eased off.

A touch of frost

The British are usually quite self-abasing when it comes to getting in a tizz over some adverse weather, be it leaves on the railway line, the wrong leaves on the line or a moderate layer of snow slowing everything down. But in California, it drops down to 2 degrees celsius and the authorities declare a state emergency. Honestly, it's not even in minus numbers. There’s a few photogenic frost-encrusted lemons and they go barmy. I guess living in California does make you soft.
The release of the archives that showed a proposal from the French Prime Minister in 1955 for the UK and France to merge was treated by BBC One news in a way that pandered to easy prejudices. All the running was made by Guy Mollet, the French PM of the constitutionally and economically weak Fourth Republic and Anthony Eden said 'non', forcing France to turn to Germany and beginning the decades of Britain being sidelined in Europe. Mollet even suggested that Queen Elizabeth II could have been head of state of the merged entity. But the BBC did an introductory graphic of a map of Europe where Britain is being pushed onto France by arrows reminiscent of the opening credits of Dad's Army, giving an illusion that Britain was being joined against her will to a totalitarian enemy. And all the comparisons were negative for Britain saying what we would have to give up, such as swapping fish and chips for snails and a pint of beer for Bordeaux. That last notion is particularly illogical. But then so much of the padding was. The graphic would have been far more truthful had it shown France being pushed onto Britain and if anything, it's the French who would have to make the sacrifices. The kernel of truth excavated from the report was very illuminating, as were the interviews with Brits on the Eurostar platform and Parisians. But the rest of it was highly pathetic, encouraging the myth that Europe is a monolithic enemy continually trying to swallow the UK up. As a side point, with Queen Elizabeth head of state of the two countries, she could have styled herself in the manner of her royal predecessors up to George III, as Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, (Northern) Ireland and France, the pretension to the title of the monarch of France being dropped in 1802 as part of a peace treaty.

No defence

Poor old Iain Dowie (deserves everything he gets, say Crystal Palace fans). On Match of the Day 2 last night, analysing Newcastle's winning third goal over Spurs (coming in the game less than two minutes after our second), it must have been a Freudian slip when he said of Spurs' defence "You've just conceded a goal and so you've got to be switched off." So that's where it all went wrong at Charlton - apres 'off', le deluge. He must have meant 'switched on' . He must have.

He always wanted to be Captain Galaxy

As David Beckham goes to Los Angeles hooking up with LA Galaxy, to spend the twilight of his career in the summer, it seems apt to imagine a scene two years from now, when an excitable young football fan meets a gnarled Becks, and so to paraphrase the film Sunset Boulevard (that street of broken LA youth and dreams):
"You're David Beckham. You used to be big."
Beckham - "I am still big. It's the pitches that got smaller."

When Beckham was going through the contract negotiations with LA Galaxy, I can see him raising his little pinkie to the corner of his lips and telling Galaxy's representatives
"I will move to your team for one million dollars! Mwha, ha ha, ha!"
His eye-patched adviser (Pina Zahavi?) whispers into Beckham's ear. Beckham looks puzzled, a quizzical aspect sagging his face. Then he turns back to Galaxy's reps.
"Ah yes, one million dollars a week!"
To recoup the £128 million they are paying him over five years, Anschutz Entertainment Group - the people who patronised John Prescott (it's so easy) at a ranch - are going to have milk every last shirt sale.


Today, I disposed of my David Suchet cinematic collection. Executive Decision and A Perfect Murder were among those videos surplus to requirements. It is odd that while in Britain we think of Suchet as Belgian, portraying the 'leetle grey cells' of Hercule Poirot or the bumbling Belgian police chief in the earlier Poirot series, in the USA they primarily see him as an Arab - the fanatical terrorist who won't even listen to his boss or as a sympathetic Arab-American police lieutenant. It is such cultural differences that underline our separateness from those across the pond.

The great Chelsea giveaway

Christmas may be over, but Chelsea FC still feel generous to the less well-off denizens of the league. Indeed, the only match they've won since Xmas is at home against nine-man Macclesfield, second-bottom of the league pyramid, while they shed goals left, right and centre. Last night, Wycombe Wanderers became the beneficiaries of Chelsea's charity drawing 1-1 at Adams Park despite the gap of an intervening two divisions and making Chelsea look thoroughly second-rate. The only player Wycombe paid a fee for was Jermaine Easter, scorer of their goal, for £80,000, the same as one week's wages for Michael Ballack.

So, the hike in interest rates by the Bank of England was a big surprise amongst City analysts according to the news. Only one in fifty predicted it (which is what they are paid to do). Yet, earlier this week, the news told of the strong post-Christmas sales and I was thinking to myself, hmm, this seems like a propitious time for the Bank to raise the rates. I should be working in the City.

Posh totty banned

Kate Middleton, the bit of alright destined to become our future queen (sayonara, Britney), has yesterday been afforded a rare priviledge. Several newspapers who I normally detest have called off their attack dogs and won't publish any papparazzi pictures of her when she is alone. The BBC, to demonstrate the pressure she is under from the media exposure, decided to film her along with all the happy-snappers - talk about shooting yourself in the foot. She has an exceptionally fine physique and dress sense. She even had a few (only a few, mind) horsey-looking moments at Prince William's turning-out parade at Sandhurst - perfect royalty then.

There was blood on the Kop last night as Arsenal thrashed Liverpool at the supposedly indomitable Anfield. The Reds will need to build that new stadium now to take away the shame of their second-string being beaten by Arsenal youth team. Arsenal fans were cheekily chanting "we want seven." They could have had it as well.

He's started and now he's finished

Magnus Magnusson, the Great son of Great, has passed away. Though not a titan of the world stage, he was a true gentleman, indefatigable. When congratulating the most recent Mastermind winner from his position as retired quizmaster, he was so kindly. The winner (aged 91) said his two ambitions in life were to win Mastermind and live to 100. The last public words of Magnusson were "I'll think you'll make it." Sad that he didn't himself.

On another note, though there were many good goals on Match of the day's Goal of the Month competition and Matthew Taylor's and Michael Essien's were superlative, there was a striking (pun unintended) omission. Emre Belozoglu's winning strike against Reading was better than half the goals shown as options. But I suppose it was overlooked because it came in early December and was in a midweek game on a Champions League night. It wasn't going to win Goal of the Month when Taylor's and Essien's shots are goal of the season contenders, but it should have been in the mix and the BBC has let itself down.

You have now entered the EU

Welcome into the European Union Romania and Bulgaria. At the New's Year Eve party I was at last night, I wasn't the only one who remembered at the stroke of midnight.