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Agony Freak to Magnolias

Despite how it might seem at times, not sure the alphabetical journey through my musical collection is long enough to be split into eras.

But there are distinct periods – occasionally of complete inactivity – through which it is possible to map the progression of the journey.

Sort of a digital version of geology, but rather than thousands of years of pressure revealing layers in the rocks, this is mapped out by the evolution of digital music.

If my memory serves, we have gone through two iPod Classics – the much preferable ones with the wheel they do not make any more – and three iPod Touches.

Two of which are still going and will head to Africa, albeit one with a cracked screen because it was in my back pocket after supplying pre-wedding music and forgotten about until the photographer asked us to sit on a rock.

The much newer, more expensive phone emerged unscathed and has provided most of the music over the last year, if only because it means fewer things to cart around the gym.

There has been a few pair of headphones along the way, from in-ear cables, over-ear cables and a couple of pairs of bluetooth headphones which, this week, have been supplemented by a pair of ear buds.

Which am pretty much guaranteed to lose at some point.

If how the music is provided has changed, so has how and when it is listened to (if not the volume, whatever the digital warnings keep saying) for starters, not the only one in the house so blaring it out is no longer an option.

But my listening habits have evolved rather more naturally than that.

There was a time when barely stepped outside without headphones clamped over my head, a habit which started with various Walkmen (other brands were available – and cheaper) taking the dog for a walk.

Music was invariably plugged in while driving – unless listening to sport on the radio – and on the bus when my long-serving car finally came to the end of the road ahead of going to Africa, when the headphones were never too far away during truck days.

The lure of long sessions listening to music helped take me on long walks and to the gym while getting conditioned for heading back on the road in South Africa but, whisper it quietly, have increasingly left the house without headphones as the years have rolled in.

The bulk of the A-Z listening these days, bar the odd catch-up session at home when normally pick other options to listen to, is again back in the gym.

Which has become part of the routine. If not quite daily, usually four or five times a week – the advantages of being glued to UK time while working in Australia and finishing at 4pm for half of the year between clock changes – which means progress through the alphabet is at a decent rate.

That is not the only advantage of going to the gym. The others are a bit more expected.

In the early days of the blog, wrote a few times about how getting fit was pretty much a fixture at the top of the to-do list. Mainly because never did anything about it and it just kept getting pushed onto the list for the next day, week or month.

Was fit enough to deal with Africa, just not as fit as would have liked, so did something about it before heading to South America, just not quite what was planned.

Managed to lose a fair amount of weight, but fitness was hit – almost inevitably, given my record – by injuries.

The first, totally inevitably, was my back from pushing too hard too early in the gym. The second, a calf issue, popped up amid a lot of swearing as attempted a couch to 5k programme.

A couple of weeks off was not quite enough as the calf went pop again pretty much instantly, the osteopath imposing a ban on running (more than happy to oblige) ahead of a gradual return via a static bike and a programme of my own invention, designed to get me in shape to walk the Inca Trail.

Not sure anything can really prepare you for that, especially flat walks alongside a canal, but lengthy sessions on treadmills with the incline being constantly increased did the trick and headed to South America in good shape.

And walking at the same speed which the treadmill had been set to, right up to the point the path really pushed uphill.

Lockdown, a knee issue aggravated first on a Patagonian hillside – with the very step on one of the options on the gym’s treadmill screen – and an uneven Gloucester pavement (which ended any lingering desire to get off the couch and run 5k, as well as prompting physio sessions via Zoom) and lack of motivation as the world closed down did little for my fitness or waistline.

Joining a local gym was a fairly early thing ticked off the list after arriving in Australia, only for an induction session – which ignored building up fitness in favour of seeing how close they could push me to throwing up on the ski erg machine – to squash any residual enthusiasm.

Attendance was erratic, but with getting fit again topping the to-do list for another African adventure, headed back, got in conversation with a new personal trainer and took the plunge.

And 10 months later, it has paid off.

Not going to be running any marathons or considering a comeback to rugby, but feeling the benefits.

That ski erg, avoided like the plague for so long, is now just a warm-up and while some of the positions suggested for stretches remain a pipe dream and a few sessions with the trainer have had me regretting my choice of breakfast (or lack of it, big mistake), more than happy with my progress.

For starters, no longer feel an outsider among the gym bunnies. Belong there, doing my thing which has got me fitter, stronger and more flexible. Well, a bit for the last one.

And, a niggling bicep apart, not even injured (he says, touching wood, hoping not to jinx it).

The back still hurts. Have learned to live with that over the last 30 years. But stretch it off, walk away and come out of the gym feeling fine. Even good and bouncing. Well, some of the time.

Will keep going, working through my three personalised programmes a week with one or two more thrown in, until we head to Africa, soundtracked for the next few weeks by songs beginning with N.

Which will take their place in another new era for the blog.

We have worked our way through a few different approaches to the music on the blog – shoehorning it on the end of something totally unrelated, focusing purely on the music, a mix of the two approaches and even a couple of live posts.

But for the coming weeks, we will turn the focus back on the music with a few posts in a diary style – whatever we lesson to each, be it just a couple of tracks or a few hours worth of listening, will pick out the pick of what pops into my head while listening (the shareable bits at least).

Will post when there is enough to make it worthwhile.

It should help keep things moving as the pre-Africa to-do list continues to tick along, as well as focus on the music and use some of the thoughts which pop into my head while listening, but which have to make way for length.

Or have simply forgotten.

That will kick off with N, a relative sprint of 544 tracks beginning with number 9,892, but before then we need to mop up the tracks from A-M which have been added in to the collection earlier in the journey.

Which are largely the new additions since we started M in March, the tracks and albums jostling for position in the best of the year lists – helped by time to get to know all of them on the back of a truck and the fact there is likely to be few, if any, new additions after a potential rush of downloads in early October.

As well as making regular appearances on those lists – to the point a category has been invented for her a couple of times – Phoebe Bridgers soundtracked the injury-stricken pandemic attempt to run five kilometres with Punisher (top of the list in 2020).

And she has soundtracked the last couple of days with her new album Lost Weekend.

First impressions are good and her best work has a habit of revealing itself on repeated listens, so that is the plan among the A-Z for the next few days at least.

Was a bit non-committal on lead single Lost Boys for the first couple of listens, but once it peeled away the layers and took root in my head (to mix any number of expressions), it revealed itself as vintage Bridgers.

The as-yet unclear end-of-year lists may start to take shape with a few more listens.

Man/Woman/Chainsaw’s debut album was released just in time to sneak a few tracks into the catch-up – whether they make it onto the list come the end of the year, but the early signs are pretty good (although not quite as sold as on regular reader appears to be).

They are a young band that almost do what it says on the tin.

They have a man singing, a woman singing, they have… well, maybe not quite a chainsaw but there’s something akin to some decent gardening equipment when the kick it up a gear.

If there is anything akin to a chainsaw in this section, it comes from Sugar.

That same regular reader blames us seeing them twice in a few days for his tinnitus.

My hearing – despite attempts to persuade my wife to the contrary at times – survived intact, although had only just recovered from the first one by the time we went again (although did twist an ankle in the mosh pit, which probably tells you how long ago it was).

Tinnitus or not, my gig companion has seen the reformed band, while Australia has had to make do with a couple of singles. It is not Copper Blue, but Bob Mould releasing new music is always a good thing.

Slightly – well, much – quieter, Kevin Morby and Bill Callahan cropped up fairly regularly on the catch-up journey from Snail Mail to Rosalia, and certainly need more attention, as did Courtney Barnett, The Twilight Sad (fuzzy Scottish shoegaze), Mitski and The Coral.

The Mary Wallopers cropped up with three new tracks (some of their next album will have to wait for the next catch-up), at least one of which is likely to annoy anyone draping themselves in a flag rather than understanding of the history of why it might upset some people.

Particularly some near neighbours.

Aldous Harding and Cardinals still have some work to do to grab attention – Cardinals in particular, hotly tipped and enough good ideas which somehow get overtaken by something which steers it in another direction.

It is not all this year’s stuff, there are a couple of albums from last year was possibly a bit late to (although one managed an honourable mention on the last list).

Nick Cave’s Live God provided a few tracks to this stretch, all of which were very welcome videos – particularly the wonderful version of Into My Arms.

Cave is one of those artists always felt should cherish and know more about, but increasingly coming to the conclusion that this is the best way to interact with him.

An entire album of this stuff is just a bit too much. A bit overwrought.

And then there was Rosalia.

Resisted for a while, but despite all the red flags – opera, classical, foreign languages, an album about saints – Lux is just a really good album.

Totally bonkers, but demanding of attention, however long the journey.

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Mr Ambulance Driver to Myxomatosis (Judge, Jury & Executioner)

Raising the bat (or laptop) for a triple century did not seem the right way to mark reaching 300 posts on Travel Marmot.

If only because only my wife would probably notice and think it a bit odd. The cat, if awake, is likely to bolt or stare unimpressed at such behaviour.

Debated something a bit more spectacular or downright bizarre, after all that seems to be the way major milestones are being marked at the moment.

My wife and the cat would get close to the size of the crowd at some landmark events in Washington.

If it was not the middle of winter in Canberra – yes, it does get cold in Australia – could have built somewhere for some blokes to fight out on the lawn and show due respect to the founding fathers of the blog (two blokes chatting in a pub, one of whom took the conversation seriously and created a website while the other was sleeping in his spare room).

Will have to make do with jet washing the area out the front of the house which has gone a bit green where the bins are kept.

Lot less hassle and more successful than getting rid of anything green and mouldy from a reflecting pool.

Instead, we mark the occasion with a couple of my favourite songs from bands who pop up often in this A-Z journey through my iPod and who lit up the latest section from Mr Ambulance Driver to Myxomatosis (Judge, Jury & Executioner) as we weaved our way to the end of the M tracks

Halfway through the alphabet.

And look back on how we got this far.

Post number one was not originally on Travel Marmot. It was not even my first foray into blogging, but that – from my first bout of longer travelling, six weeks on my first visit to the US – was shared with someone else on another hosted site.

My first solo post was written, as memory serves, on an old, far too heavy laptop balanced on my lap on the sofa in my front room in Splott, Cardiff in January 2010.

Like so many which followed, You Gotta Keep the Devil Down In The Hole stole a title from a song (the theme to one of the greatest TV shows, no arguing) which is still a fair way off in the A-Z.

It served as the opening post in the countdown to my London to New York trip, which started a couple of months later, and was housed on a now defunct blog hosting site – chosen by two of us, largely because they heralded that we would have a permanent record of our trip.

Up until they closed down.

At that point, had no intention of keeping the blog going beyond the end of the trip

But then came that conversation in a London pub – which was revisited outside one in The Rocks in Sydney not that long ago – and the Travel Marmot site was born in March 2014, initially populated by those travel posts from the previous sites and some random others, mostly originally written for newsletters for a small overland company.

Overland travel gave plenty to write about in the early days – as it will for the next 15 months or so, again in Africa – and we also saw the birth of the A-Z journey through my iPod (as it was totally then, rather than my phone and laptop taking their share of the strain).

Quite how the idea came up is a bit hazy but certainly stems from another random conversation. This one in the office (remember them), rather than the pub.

The idea of listening to my iPod in alphabetical order had been floated before, had even started a bid to do that which somehow stalled fairly early. It would have been a much shorter journey back then.

Think might have mentioned both that and a desire to fill the gap on a travel blog when not actually travelling in close proximity during a chat at work and someone came up – possibly in Cornish – with what seemed like a good idea at the time.

Twelve years and 9,779 tracks later, 7, 163 to go – keeping a track on the exact number has been a bit of an evolving saga which might get to before we hit that landmark – it largely still is.

It has not been a constant journey. There have been lengthy breaks in both alphabetical music and blogging.

Often because was listening to other stuff, occasionally because was not getting the opportunity to give time to bouts of plugging myself into the music, more commonly because the music and the writing were not in sync.

And often because just needed a break.

There are certainly lengthy periods of silence or just the occasional post. Mainly because was spending all day in front of a screen at work and the last thing on my mind in the evenings was doing the same.

Travelling, moving to Australia and getting married have also kept me pretty occupied between A and the end of M.

But back in the swing of blogging, the A-Z remains a good idea – discovering (and rediscovering) tracks hidden away in the depths of my collection, along with the tracks and artists which you would expect as major landmarks along the way.

With the A-Z soundtracking trips to the gym, been making pretty good progress – both listening and writing – and while not returning to the challenge of writing a blog post a day for a month any time soon (my wife is under instructions to put a stop to any suggestions that is a good idea), do have an idea for a daily approach to rattling through the tracks over the next couple of months.

Once we have had a bit of a catch-up and before it takes a necessary break – found very quickly in Africa last time, keeping two blog strands going on the road is not really on.

Not travelling to blog, but blogging because of travel. Not adding to the task of capturing the journey for posterity. And stupid jokes.

The end of M – from The Flaming Lips to Radiohead – was dotted with a fair few heavy hitters as we worked through a section dominated by the Mr/Mrs/Ms and My songs.

Two tracks, as mentioned right up there in paragraph eight, in particular.

Echo & The Bunnymen, as explained to somebody at work in a conversation which somehow linked Simon Pegg, The Daily Express, GCHQ, nuclear obliteration and my first gig, were my teenage band and pop up regularly on this musical journey (is it long enough to be an odyssey yet?).

Have written several times (it is 300 posts, you expect original thought all the time?) about how the second side of Ocean Rain is about as near perfect stretch of songs as exists anywhere.

Also wrote about how disagree with Ian McCulloch that The Killing Moon is the greatest song ever written. It is not even the greatest song on the B side of Ocean Rain (which is pretty stiff competition).

That is the oft overlooked My Kingdom.

Once had to submit at the last minute – because a better-known columnist had not bothered replying – my top 10 tracks of all time for a Christmas newspaper feature.

Pretty sure most of that top 10 would not still be on any such list. My Kingdom probably is. My White Devil, which popped up with two versions, is not but is among the best tracks on Porcupine.

My Favourite Dress was not on the list. Not sure at the time it would have been my pick of The Wedding Present catalogue.

But having gone back to them after a largely inexplicable fall out of favour it has pretty much emerged as the pick of their work, which features as often as anyone throughout this A-Z work.

John Peel had a point when he said: “The boy Gedge has written some of the best love songs of the rock n roll era. You may dispute this, but I’m right and you are wrong.”

My Favourite Dress is exhibit A (B, C and D given the four versions – one more than My Kingdom).

If anyone features as often in my musical collection as The Wedding Present – will actually check that one of these days, but know it is close – it is Ryan Adams.

Nowadays he may not elicit the same feelings as Dave Gedge – or as when those tracks appeared in my collection – but he did manage a rare feat on this journey of different songs from the same artist back-to-back (without them being linked in some other way).

For all his baggage, My Winding Wheel (four versions, two live) is still a great song. My Wrecking Ball (twice) maybe less so.

Must I Paint You A Picture is pretty high on the list of Billy Bragg songs on the A-Z and he is probably not far behind those two amid the most regular appearances, which also included My Youngest Son Came Home Today and The Myth Of Trust in the closing stages of this section.

As well as the closing track, Radiohead contributed My Iron Lung (from The Bends, their best album as an oft-visited pub argument contended) while other regular visitors included Pixies (Mr Grieves), Mrs Robinson (both The Lemonheads’ cover and Simon & Garfunkel’s cover), Wilco (two versions of Muzzle Of Bees, a welcome rediscovery) and Buffalo Tom (My Responsibility).

The Mr section gave us, probably not that surprisingly, something from The Killers, Mr Pharmacist by The Fall, Mr Wendal from the excellent Arrested Development debut album and three versions of Mr Tambourine Man.

Not sure The Flowers Of Hell (nope, me neither) really stood up to Bob Dylan or The Byrds.

Covers kept cropping up – Sid Vicious sneering his way through My Way, probably in between my own sneers on the leg press at the gym, while The Vines’ version of Ms Jackson more than held its own alongside Outkast’s original.

The Dream Warriors are far from frequent visitors but My Definition Of A Boombastic Jazz Style sent things in a rather different direction briefly, as did Eminem (My Name Is) and My Shot from Hamilton, just to cover the rap genre a bit wider.

We rewound the clock a bit to Catatonia (Mulder and Scully) and the eponymous track from Mull Historical Society.

And went even further back in time to My Perfect Cousin by The Undertones. The first song knew all the lyrics to, which came in handy when did it at karaoke.

Many years later. Probably about the same time as the first Travel Marmot post was written.

Suggest another 300 may come and go before try karaoke again.

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MKVI to Moya

Headlines have played a sizeable enough part of my professional life for some fairly firm opinions to take hold, opinions which were stirred by a couple which jumped out of social media feeds in the past few days.

Both started with the phrase “rugby player dies”, triggering annoyed shakes of the head and, after some time mulling it over in the gym, a reshaped topic for this blog post.

It is not quite as strong a reaction as to the phrase “popular cafe closes” or the word legend – banned on desks when my voice has carried any weight at all on the style guide.

It is, if it is to be used at all beyond its literal sense, to be saved for very few people. Not some bloke who has played a handful of games for the local team.

And if that cafe (shop, business, take your pick) was so popular, probably would not be closing.

But those complaints are as much about an old sub-editor shouting at clouds (somewhere along the lines of where this post was originally going).

My objection to the “rugby player dies…” headline is how much would hate that being used about me – these were not top-level players, but local club players who probably had so much more going on in lives cut short.

Yet someone opted to reduce their lives to that phrase, not because it was an accurate summation but because they thought it would attract more online clicks as people wondered if it was someone they had heard of or seen play.

Understandable, yes. Headlines are supposed to draw you into the story. But you can do that in other ways, providing a glimpse into the story without zeroing in on one tiny aspect.

It is not quite clickbait – whatever the people who shout that at any headline or story they dislike might think – but it is just a little… icky.

But, shouting at clouds apart, the reason it had me mulling things over while training – something largely avoided in my playing days – was it coincided with my former club captain posting an old programme from a representative game, full of names which either knew through playing, got to know to varying degrees through reporting or simply were names which take me back to those days of my youth.

Talking about my playing days, was a far better player if the person on the receiving end had no chance of having seen me play.

Was… OK. Rather like my school reports, could have been better if had applied myself and put in the work. Like actually turning up to training.

Rather like my days skiing, what happened after with a drink in hand rather took over from the actual activity as time wore on, but have plenty of good memories to look back on.

Did play a bit of mini rugby, but never really enjoyed playing until secondary school – even then it took a few years, having been cut from the school team in the early years before returning as we grew up and even managing to captain the first team a few times while retaking my A Levels (something to put on university forms at least).

Unlike many of my contemporaries, had not played for a local club side – which were thriving in Gloucester in those days – so was at a bit of a crossroads when left school and deciding what to do next.

Had a few offers from clubs – the nearest team would have made sense, being a few minutes walk/staggering home away, while one of my dad’s old teams made contact through people he knew.

But had pretty much decided on my school’s old boys team – was close enough to home, knew people there and had played well enough in the annual school v club match for them to welcome the idea.

Right up until the point one Friday night in the pub when asked if was available to play for someone else’s third team the next day and found myself agreeing, waking up groggily in the morning, cleaning off my boots and working out where the hell Gloucester Old Boys played.

Having found them, played well enough to be asked back – and promoted to the seconds the next week, if only because one of the first team props had been sent off – and so began six seasons at the Old Boys before injuries and the need to work on a Saturday afternoon cut short my playing career at 23.

The club secretary at the time was probably the most disappointed with my playing days ending – Norman had played with my father and, when he discovered the link on my first day there, proudly informed me of the family honour of the first player to be sent off for the club (back in the days when local rugby pitches were a little bit more of a free for all).

Dad always protested his innocence – he reckoned the second row behind him threw the first punch – but Norman was always keen for the completion of a family double. Came close a few times.

Those six years were studded with success – league titles up to the brink of the national leagues, County Cups, North Glos Combination Cups (the best sporting tournament, at least in those days) – although the fact those trophies coincided with my presence was entirely coincidental.

In my first season, when still a teenager, bounced between the second and third teams, dislocated my shoulder at least once, scored my first try and injured my back for the first time in the same match (which also involved a mass brawl which spilled onto the adjoining pitch and, details are hazy, a female spectator hitting players with an umbrella), had my first “Kermit” drink to mark my first try, and threw up my first Kermit out of my bedroom window which dried on the roof tiles to my mother’s annoyance.

There was also stuff on tour in Skegness, but what goes on tour…

And somehow took over the captaincy of the third team.

Probably because was too naive to spot a set up in the players’ meeting to elect one.

Biggest problem was actually having to turn up on training nights – not always easy with work – to sit on selection. Which for the thirds, until the fourths kicked into gear, was largely making a team of who was left. And filling in the gaps when players got called up to the higher teams.

That first season ended with a bemused teenage captain at the centre of a dispute after a draw in a midweek Combination Cup tie saw the two teams disagreeing over when a replay should take place – mainly due to one team’s reluctance to play on a Saturday because they had players unavailable (at least that is what the committee members who came running onto the pitch at the final whistle explained, imploring me to stand my ground in negotiations).

The fallout saw us kick off on the Saturday with no opposition, cup committee members resigning (which turned into another story as one was a friend of my father’s and worked across the road from my mother) and us going out in the next round.

Cup rules meant having played for the thirds, was still eligible to move up and plug a front-row hole for the seconds (coming off the bench early for them and playing for the thirds on successive nights at one point) in a semi-final.

We lost, but having looked around the first lineout and realised was the smallest player in either pack (am not small), it was an education. Not always pleasant, but certainly an experience to remember.

It gave renewed purpose and actually turned up to training throughout the summer (more throwing up after/during a couple of the sessions, this time not from drinking), to the point where was picked to go with the first team squad for a pre-season trial game.

Thrown into action for one of the periods, came off fairly pleased at my performance in a notable step up in level – right up to the point bent over to pick up a drink and could not get back up again.

The back problem which have lived with since had flared up and was told by a doctor my season was over, although the first of many (many, many) visits to an osteopath had me back in action by Christmas.

But the rest of my playing career was spent in the lower teams – bar the occasional call up the ranks – as made the decision, partly because of work, to play for fun with my mates. Have a lot of good memories of winter Saturday afternoons around the rugby pitches of Gloucestershire and, occasionally, a bit further away.

Was often out of position – spent best part of a season at full-back (when definitely out of position too often), as far away from the front row as you could find, to protect my back a little bit (probably should not have been playing at all, but hey, this was a young man’s logic).

Could catch high balls, kick and pop up occasionally on the crash ball close to the line. Just not so good in defence when any speedy back opted to do anything other than run straight at me.

Did make it on to the first team bench a couple of times, but this was before non-injury replacements and was only there as an emergency, plucked from the adjoining pitch at the last minute.

My main role at the club became as press officer.

The reports on our match and whichever team was playing at the same place were pretty easy. Trying to get the details of the other sides after everybody had downed a few beers could be a bit tricky.

As was trying to make sense of my notes the following morning.

But would knock them into some sort of shape, deliver them to the local paper and do a good enough job that they came calling and offered the job which took me from a district weekly to a city daily – and ended my rugby career, signing off with two tries against, ironically, the local side whose reports we carried in my first paper.

My first Saturday afternoon in the job saw an instant return to the Old Boys, refusing the offers of putting on a pair of boots to help out and undergoing a crash course in filing copy during a match for a Saturday night sport paper without a laptop or mobile phone (this was the mid-90s) and only a phone behind the bar, out of sight of the pitch.

The Old Boys took me further afield – a national cup clash with once-mighty London Welsh, complete with a future British and Irish Lion at number eight, at Esher – while took in the rest of the then booming local rugby scene.

We had two rugby writers – one did Gloucester, the other did the other 40-odd clubs in the region (was once told Gloucester had more rugby clubs per head of population than anywhere bar a place in New Zealand, possibly Auckland).

So those names on that programme became key figures in my working life, got to know some of them pretty well.

Travelled across the country with Lydney and Berry Hill (often on the team coaches, thanks to the very understanding men in charge – the much missed Gordon Sargent and Ian Seymour, who were endlessly patient with a young reporter), was held up against a clubhouse wall by a prop who did not like a comment in a cup game report and stood on top of a radio car to see over the crowd on a touchline during a match at Swanage. Filed my report drying out on the bus.

Even sat on the bench as emergency prop cover while reporting, although they had the same attitude as the Old Boys first team and suggested players fought through any injury which might have seen me enter the fray.

Much to my relief and that of the copytaker receiving my report down the phone.

As it progressed, my rugby career took me to Twickenham (to cover many of the names in that programme as Gloucestershire won the County Championship, somehow being handed a pass to the post-match reception), Millennium Stadium, Murrayfield, Stade de Colombes and even the holiest of holies, Kingsholm.

Refused to give up one of my fleeces to a former All Black who had been unwise enough to wear shorts and a T-shirt to coach a pre-season game at Ebbw Vale in August.

And was told to, in his exact words, fuck off by another All Blacks legend. One of those people you can use that term to describe. Big bloke, played on the wing.

That one was not my fault – the photographer who got in the way after had got the player to agree to a quick chat got even more extreme language from me.

Cannot say the same about the other big name – a childhood hero and a fixture in any greatest team have watched – who told me to… go away, abruptly. Was pushing my luck on that one.

Covering rugby gave me some great memories. There are many more tales to be shared – being followed around a ground by an elderly club press officer trying to find out which player was leaking stories to me, the interview through a tiny gap in a door as a player on the other side took a post-match drugs test and the official desperately tried to get rid of me spring to mind.

But nothing quite matches playing. Might not want it in any headline about my demise, but three decades-plus on, still consider myself a rugby player.

Not sure everyone who saw it would agree.

  • The original plan for this post had an easy link worked out from journalism to the latest section of the A-Z journey through my iPod – you know, the thing this is supposed to be about.

There was going to be some link between news, social media, flags, gammon and Model Village by Idles. Shouting my wife would call it, but this is top level shouting with a purpose.

They also contributed two versions of Mother on the journey from MKVI to Moya, from Speedy Ortiz to Godspeed You! Black Emperor ahead of the final stretch of M tracks. And a major landmark.

Both of which next time.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor occupied a fair amount of time during this section, not only because the shortest of their four entries – Moya, Mladic and two tracks which popped up back-to-back during the Mother section which we will not repeat – weighed in at more than 10 minutes.

Other repeat appearances came from regulars Radiohead (Morning Bell twice, Morning Bell/Amnesiac and Motion Picture Soundtrack), Billy Bragg (Mother Of The Bride and Moving The Goalposts) and REM (Monty Got A Raw Deal and Moral Kiosk).

Manic Street Preachers – a band go back on forth on, depending on how often have heard them recently – also popped up with two of their finer moments, Motorcycle Emptiness (twice) and Motown Junk.

They also provided a return to South Wales, where much of my rugby reporting took place, as did Public Service Broadcasting who provided a tenuous link to that trip down memory lane above.

They provided Mother Of The Village from their truly wonderful Every Valley album, which was recorded in Ebbw Vale, just around the corner from where spent many afternoons and evenings covering the Steelmen.

Just make sure you pack an extra fleece, even during summer.

There were multiple appearances for several songs – The Modern Age by The Strokes, Molly’s Chambers by Kings Of Leon (before they had all the rough, interesting edges smoothed off by corporate America) and three outings for Modern Art by Art Brut.

Which falls into the interesting discoveries section – soundtracking a lengthy session involving step-ups and squats – along with Molehills by Arab Strap and Deafheaven’s Mombasa. Calm by their standards.

Joanna Newsom, however, again failed to convince with Monkey vs Bear. Just do not get it.

But pick of the multiple tracks was Monkey Gone To Heaven by the Pixies.

Can go a while without hearing the Pixies, but when they do pop up – particularly this track which is one of the reasons fell in love with them in the first place – always feel the need to remedy that.

Loudly. Well, quietly, loudly, quietly, loudly…

There were other flashbacks from back when could take to the rugby field without fear of the impact on my back – Monkeys by Echo & The Bunnymen, The Sugarcubes grower Motorcrash, Movin’ On Up by Primal Scream and Prefab Sprout’s Moving The River.

I Am Kloot do not go quite that far back, but remember listening to The Moon Is A Blind Eye – and the whole The Sky At Night album, on the back of a recommendation from home – on the bus from Manhattan to JFK Airport (with a hangover) to round off my first lengthy bout of travelling.

Almost 16 years ago to the day.

And we had Motion Sickness from Phoebe Bridgers when she was still one to watch and on the verge of taking up residence in the Travel Marmot end-of-year lists.

A tradition which could return with a new album on the horizon.

But we will get to that in the very near future.



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The Last 100 Days

One hundred days from now, everything changes.


Travel Marmot, July 2014

Twelve years, give or take a week or so, since we reached that landmark in the countdown to my first overlanding trip around Africa.

Having repeated the post five years later at the same point ahead of preparations for the (planned) circuit of South America, time to keep tradition alive and check in on progress through the inevitable to-do lists.

Plural, if just to provide a feeling of doing something, even if it is just updating the same info in multiple places – with the added thrill of crossing if off as many times.

As well as multiple lists (the day-to-day to do list, jobs lurking in search of a scheduled spot and the African lists – schedule, kit and just one long list which kicked it all off and has a load of figures and notes while researching stuff), there are countdowns to three dates.

In a step up from Post-it notes on the side of my work screen, these have migrated (complete with rudimentary artwork) to the white board which used to live on the freezer in the garage. Before damp stripped the magnetic backing off it.

The countdown – that’s a laptop (to symbolise work), a plane and the truck. In case the artwork is not up to scratch. Not taking pictures in the middle of the night, the time on the screen is because work on UK time through the Australian day.

So we have 76 days until log off work for the last time and pack up my kit to get it to my boss in Sydney (somehow), 86 before we board a flight in Sydney to a few days back in the UK – conveniently coinciding with Gloucester hosting the European champions – and the round 100 until we join up with the truck and our fellow passengers in Fes, Morocco, to kick off 11-plus months on the road.

So after a week off to kick off my penultimate rota and mop up remaining lieu days, how are we faring working through those lists?

Reading the post from 12 years ago, certainly seem to be further advanced – possibly due to booking earlier this time around, potentially down to my wife chipping away at kit buying (ideal presents) and moderating the worst of my tendencies to empty the to-do list by moving entries to later days.

Had, apparently, “got my head round” visas back then, which has been one of this week’s main tasks – getting things sorted for a Ghana application, as then, the only one we have to get sorted and in our passports before we leave Australia.

Which makes living on the edge of Canberra a real plus – the ability to just rock up at the Ghanaian High Commission across town to drop off and collect passports gets rid of that nervous feeling of them being somewhere in the postal system.

The forms are complete (thankfully, kept my old passport so was able to find the last date entered Ghana), accompanying documents collated and just couple of small queries about exact details about lodging them and completing the applications.

There are initial stages of a couple of other visas we need to look at before we head off, but more a case of starting the process online which we will finish on the road.

The bags are packed – the final selection ready to go 12 years ago

The other main job for visas was taken care of this week, once we had worked out the best way to sort the advised 26 passport pictures each – with spares for the terminally wary – without spending hundreds of dollars.

Handy things those print your own picture machines.

Smarter shirt for visa visits to embassies en route needs selecting.

Almost ticked off the list are vaccinations. As a couple of nights of waking up a few times on an aching arm will attest.

Thankfully, not been a full pin cushion – Lisa bore the bigger brunt of that one, all while eyeing the consolation Chuppa Chups – with several jabs still valid from previous trips.

One more visit to the travel clinic – and one more raid on the nurse’s lollies – and we are done, when we will emerge with more sore arms and enough malaria tablets to keep us healthy for the duration.

Given my ability to get bitten by any insect within a sizeable radius, they were a non-negotiable.

Once we have confirmed blood test results – tracked down after being sent to Melbourne for some reason – to check we are able to take them, have opted for weekly tablets, rather than the more customary daily ones (listen for the alarm reminders going off around the truck).

Starting point – the tanneries in Fes

Really did not need another 300-odd tablets on top of the existing prescriptions which await collection along with a bid to get them decanted into space-saving jars rather than a load of boxes.

Only have so much space in the (new) backpack.

The same logic is behind switching from daily to monthly contact lenses.

The lists have not got shorter this week. If anything, they have got longer, but much of that is breaking initial entries into more detail as we uncover information, think of something new or add things we need (or want) to the kit list.

A lot of things can (and will) be left until late – making for a busy week after finishing work – but definitely think further on with the key items than 12 years ago.

Not with everything, have spent less time dealing with those jobs which can be done at any time – particularly loading up on kit – and more time on sorting the major areas which can take longer and involve other people (and money).

Part of that progress may have something to do with having done this before. We know what needed doing early, what can be left and how much time things take.

And a decent knowledge of exactly what we need to take.

We stocked up early on sleeping equipment – worth spending time and money on being comfortable in the tent, which is why the Christmas present air mattresses and sleeping bags have been tested on the lounge floor.

And will be again, much to the confusion of the cat.

Getting organised – the kit pile (minus electrics and clothes)

The rechargeable air pump was very much in the want rather than need column, but suggest it could quickly become my favourite purchase rather than having to spend time every night inflating the mattresses (by foot, rather than breath this time).

Sleeping kit was always top of the shopping list, not just because of that desire to get it right – my air bed should really have been replaced ahead of South America, given the way it was going down through the night, while it and my sleeping bag were among the items which never made it home from South America after the Covid-enforced ending of the trip away from the truck.

The want list contains a few more big-ticket items – a new pair of headphones, maybe another powerbank – but much of the electrics need list has been ticked off after an afternoon spent checking everything could be charged using the existing powerbank or via USB cables from a car charger on the truck.

And then there are clothes with decisions looming on what and how much can be packed neatly/squeezed into (delete as applicable/how far we are into the trip) rucksacks, a lot of which may depend on how much we can resist temptation to buy new stuff in the next three months.

That final week in Australia – and beyond in Gloucester and London – will have shopping lists to load up on essentials, even a couple of days in the labyrinthine Fes old town before meeting the truck.

Which will definitely include toilet paper – believe me, good to have a roll close at hand.

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Yellow Truck Fever

This is about as far away from your average holiday as you can get

Oasis Overland Trans Africa trip notes

One of my abiding memories of the countdown to my first overland trip around Africa was explaining to people exactly what was going to happen.

No, we were not flying, nobody was cooking and looking after us. Yes, we were living out of the back of a big yellow truck, camping in the wild with no facilities and, bar a few points where we had to pick up or drop off other passengers, the itinerary was more of a suggestion than anything set in stone.

Yes, we would have to dig the truck out when it got stuck, there were no luxury hotel rooms to scurry back to at the end of the day, we did have to go through a country they had read about on the news and no, we were not going to get eaten alive by lions.

Mosquitoes, quite possibly, but not lions. Well, hopefully not.

And no, we were not going to catch ebola in Papua New Guinea (a genuine question).

Not your average holiday indeed.

What is overlanding?

Twelve years ago, did not know enough about what was ahead to provide detailed answers – there were hostel beds, a surprisingly comfortable spot on a converted bus, a (possibly vodka-soaked) bunk on a train or a cramped cabin on a cruise ship across the Pacific on my previous overland journey.

People might have had to wait a bit for a full answer – to a question they long ago forgot they asked – but time to explain exactly what awaits come October.

And why we are still excitedly counting down the days.

This is one of our longer and more demanding overland adventures and it’s
a trip where you should expect the unexpected

Oasis Overland

Travel

“So you start in Morocco, what then? Fly down to Cape Town?”

It is not an unusual reaction to telling people you are going to travel around Africa. Been asked variations of that question a couple of times in recent weeks.

There is not quite no flying – the rather large, immovable object which is conflict-ridden Sudan ensures a total ground journey from the south to the north of east Africa is not possible this time – but until we are forced to fly from Addis Ababa to Cairo, the journey will be on board a big yellow truck.

Would not last nearly a year if we were hopping on planes.

A Day In The Life On A Big Yellow Truck

The truck – and it is always a truck, never a bus (unless putting that on a form is helpful in some way) – will carry our group from Fez in Morocco, down the west side of the continent to South Africa and meander the way back up the more travel-conscious eastern half as far as the Ethiopian capital, local transport taking the strain for the final couple of weeks around Egypt.

That truck will be our transport on roads which, unless the Chinese have popped up to help out countries rich in natural resources with the infrastructure, barely qualify as such in many places.

The journey takes us round, through and often deep into, potholes you can swim in, mud, forest, sand, rocks, up and down slopes, possible floods, and… well, whatever conditions you can imagine a vehicle making its way through. And a fair few others.

The further back you sit, the more you bounce (Oasis Overland recommends you always wear your seatbelt – there are times when you decide to take notice).

But beyond transport, your truck becomes your home.

Have written before about being tempted to answer the address question on visa or border forms with “Big Yellow Truck, Somewhere In Africa”.

It is not totally a joke. As well as many hours on the back of the truck – Africa is a big place – it is the nearest its occupants have to a home for 11 months (or however long they are on board through part of the journey).

The truck carries our kit, food stocks, a metric shitload of water (which needs a bit of work to fill up every few days), sought-after charging points, the kitchen, tents and pretty much everything the overlander needs to get safely around a huge continent.

It is all things to all passengers.

Just not a bus.

Not only will you have to get stuck in (often literally!) as you help to dig the truck out when it gets bogged down, you all get involved in the cooking and cleaning, as well as setting up and taking down the tents.

Oasis Overland

Accommodation

Where you sleep is one of the key differences between overlanding and other, more pampered, options and largely falls into two main categories – camping with some facilities and bush camping with absolutely none.

There are times when those facilities are verging on the luxurious in comparison (particularly through the safari-rich areas of the east), ticking off most, if not all, of the overlander’s wishlist – toilets you can use without holding your breath/closing your eyes. showers with actual hot, running water, (increasingly) Wifi, a bar, a pool and maybe even a bed to upgrade to.

More often, you might get a toilet and showers. How glad you are to see (and, particularly, use) them is open to question.

Upgraded at one spot in Kenya to a room, complete with toilet and shower. My tent mate paid about US$5 each for us – because he did not want to put the tent up in the rain. Came close to asking for my money back.

Into The Wild Camping

Occasionally, camp sites also come with armed guards. Which often answers the dilemma of whether to walk all the way to use the facilities during the night.

There will be the occasional hostel or guest house – which will become the norm in the Egyptian leg and were far more prevalent in South America – and the odd night potentially spent on a train or felucca on the Nile.

But what really sets Oasis Overland trips apart are the bush camps.

They come in many places – quarries are popular, on tracks amid a rain forest, in an olive grove, in the shadow of a sand dune, a police compound (after being moved on from your original spot), amid stunning rock formations, on a road in the middle of a village which came out in force to watch, under a statue of Christ on top of a mountain, in deserts, on mountain sides, on the side of the road at a border…

Some stumbled on by accident, others by design from the efforts of those who have gone before.

Anywhere, in fact, which allows us to pull off the road, set up camp and preferably avoid detection – although random locals still have a habit of joining us, one riding into camp proferring a water melon in exchange for a sticker to go on his motorbike.

Except for those places with facilities – well, a bar, which is likely to distract people – evenings in camp follow a similar routine.

Piling off the truck, we head off to find wood for the fire – or check out the facilities if there are any – and, as the sun starts to drop, light a fire, pitch tents and set up the kitchen for cook group to do their stuff, while the rest of us help /hinder, clean the truck or settle down around the fire with a cold drink or two as we wait for dinner.

Speaking of which…

Food

A chunk of the payment for the trip, known as the local payment, goes into a kitty which pays for various group costs along the route – the most common of which is food.

In cities, excursions along the way or anywhere offering the chance to get out under our own steam, we do exactly that and take care of ourselves.

But for long stretches of the trip, three meals a day come out of the kitty – planned (or otherwise), shopped for and prepared by that day’s designated cook group (usually about three strong and chosen by a variety of methods, dependent on how each trip leader runs things).

The truck comes complete with a range of kitchen equipment and stores of non-perishable food, the rest is down to cook group – find what you need, on a very limited budget for up to three meals a day for up to 20-odd people, prep it when you get into camp and cook over the fire.

Or maybe the back-up gas cylinder on occasions, each trip is different.

Breakfast is often simple cereal or toast, but if time allows can get quite creative. Lunch rarely has the advantage of a fire, so is generally quick and prepared the night before. And the evening meal is the real chance to show your cooking/chopping/washing-up skills (delete as applicable).

The Overlanding Cookbook

It does not have to be gourmet, nobody is auditioning for Masterchef here. As the adage from Trans Africa 2014-15 went, it just has to be edible and there has to be enough for everybody.

The last part of that rule tends to mean people overestimate – hence our cook group once using a mountain of mash potatoes for the fried potato cakes for the next morning’s breakfast and potato salad for lunch.

The same applies for eggs, rice…

In west Africa, you often have to go with what is available – usually in a local market, which are an experience in itself – and, without refrigeration, practical if you are shopping for anything later than that night.

All that is supplemented whenever possible – pies in Ghanaian supermarkets, street food, meat on a stick and whatever people have squirrelled around the truck as snacks.

Personally, took the decision not to stash anything away – bar some instant noodles as a quick fill-in should cook group not meet rule one – and only buy food that was going to be eaten there and then.

It all added up to enough weight loss by Cape Town that had to do a quick wardrobe restock.

Just in time for some delicious game meat.

The trip will only run well if everyone approaches it with a positive attitude and enthusiasm about pitching in and helping out – the more everyone does this, the quicker and easier everything runs, and the happier everyone will be.

Oasis Overland

Passengers

Bar the one who is coming with me – and at least know who my tent mate will be – know nothing about who are travelling companions will be.

Have shared overland travels with wide variety of people – one who ran out of a hotel lobby and turned herself inside out hiding behind a van outside (rich seam of stories that one), one who was on a completely different trip to the rest of us if you read his blog, one who used the dorm floor in the middle of the night rather than walk a few yards, one who tried to hide behind her hand on the opposite side of a table (told you, rich seam of stories) and several who were really on the wrong trip.

And, despite spending many, many hours with these people for days, weeks, months on end, there are just a small handful would not be happy to bump into or find sitting across from me on the back of another overland truck.

These are the people who add the colour to these trips, the source of so many memories and stories beyond the tick list of things to see and do around Africa.

We wait to see who will be sharing the truck with us for the coming year.

Kit

We have all packed for a two-week holiday. And taken too much or forgotten something which would have come in handy.

Now imagine packing one rucksack and one smaller backpack for a year so they can be taken on a flight. And not just with clothes for all conditions, but also with your sleeping bag, air bed, the growing amount of electrics and all of life’s essentials (a year’s worth of contact lenses and tablets for starters).

Within days, you will look enviously at how well somebody else has translated a long list of things to take into their limited storage space on the truck. They will be doing the same to somebody else.

There are opportunities to restock, particularly in the big cities, but if you have ever searched high and low in Namibia for a replacement pair of size 12 flip-flops (refuse to go Aussie on that one), you know not everything is available.

Thankfully, it is not a fashion show. Comfort in whatever conditions are thrown at you is what is important.

A certain uniform begins to develop in the group and (very flexible) rules emerge on how long it is acceptable to wear the same clothes.

Rather like taking a shower whenever you can, doing laundry at every opportunity becomes crucial – whatever the rules, you do not want to push any ruling on underwear, in particular, too far.

Some will tackle things by hand in small batches whenever the opportunity arises. Some will have good intentions to do the same, but opt to push it a little bit further.

They will be the people who find somebody willing to tackle a bag full of dirty washing when you role into some form of civilisation.

Trust me, it is an investment – usually pretty small – worth making.

Why?

Oasis were right. That does not all add up to the average holiday.

All that does not necessarily sound easy. Or fun. So why do it all again?

There are the easy answers, the big-ticket items which are listed as key highlights – the ancient medinas of Morocco, the spectacle of Namibia and South Africa, gorilla trekking in Uganda, the golden beaches of Zanzibar, Victoria Falls, some of the world’s great safari spots, the history and splendour of Egypt, goats in trees, so many, many more…

To say nothing of the road less travelled in those places which will not necessarily be on anyone’s bucket list but will leave their mark in your memories.

And then the places in between. This is not so much about the dots you join on the map, but what happens between – overlanding gives you access to life beyond the well-trodden path, taking you through the very things you would fly over if you really did get on a plane in Morocco and fly to Cape Town.

Have often advised anyone going to New York for the first time to head to the big attractions, but then walk because you never know what you will stumble on around the next corner.

The same holds true about overlanding. Something is always lurking around the next corner.

Twelve years ago, was extremely nervous about dealing with camping. Especially bush camping.

Right up until an epiphany on a hillside next to an olive grove near the Moroccan Roman ruins at Volubulis which converted me to the delights of bush camping.

By the time we were back into the relatively developed tourist stretch of east Africa, each less frequent bush camp was welcomed like an old friend by those of us who had fallen for their delights on the west side.

Twelve years older, the thought of camping still does not sound too tantalising, but knowing what lies ahead, am confident that will soon change.

Especially when you know the delights it all opens up for you.

It becomes addictive.

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