The Terra Nova.

So, Edgar Evans was in fact the first person from Scott's crew to pass away on the expedition. He had cut his hand tending to a sleight and suffered from frostbite and exhaustion. Just before his death, he was described as turning mad - perhaps from the stress, illness or a fall. Here's an exerpt from Scott's diary:

"Saturday, February 17 - A very terrible day. Evans looked a little better after a good sleep, and declared, as he always did, that he was quite well. He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later worked his ski shoes adrift, and had to leave the sledge. The surface was awful, the soft recently fallen snow clogging the ski and runners at every step, the sledge groaning, the sky overcast, and the land hazy. We stopped after about one hour, and Evans came up again, but very slowly.

Half an hour later he dropped out again on the same plea. He asked Bowers to lend him a piece of string. I cautioned him to come on as quickly as he could, and he answered cheerfully as I thought. We had to push on, and the remainder of us were forced to pull very hard, sweating heavily. Abreast the Monument Rock we stopped, and seeing Evans a long way astern, I camped for lunch. There was no alarm at first, and we prepared tea and our own meal, consuming the latter.

After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four started back on ski. I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes. Asked what was the matter, he replied with a slow speech that he didn't know, but thought he must have fainted. We got him on his feet, but after two or three steps he sank down again. He showed every sign of complete collapse. Wilson, Bowers, and I went back for the sledge, whilst Oates remained with him.

When we returned he was practically unconscious, and when we got him into the tent quite comatose. He died quietly at 12.30 A.M. On discussing the symptoms we think he began to get weaker just before we reached the Pole, and that his downward path was accelerated first by the shock of his frostbitten fingers, and later by falls during rough travelling on the glacier, further by his loss of all confidence in himself. Wilson thinks it certain he must have injured his brain by a fall.

It is a terrible thing to lose a companion in this way, but calm reflection shows that there could not have been a better ending to the terrible anxieties of the past week. Discussion of the situation at lunch yesterday shows us what a desperate pass we were in with a sick man on our hands at such a distance from home."

Taken from: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/scott.htm

The Terra Nova expedition had been gifted many things by wellwishers, including coal, cigars, plum puddings (?) and even a piano. In this piece I am describing a woman being shown around the ship before deperature (as they often were), and standing at the piano. I have used the piano as a metaphor for the declining mental state of Evans, who is with her at that time:


The Piano Man

“The wood will warp, sat out in the elements like this,” she thought, “the moist conditions will wreck it.” It’ll look the same, of course, on the outside but the workings will deform. The ice will work into its belly and fatten the dampeners, and the frost will make the strings creep.

The effect will be gradual of course, changing ever so slightly over time. Getting almost imperceptibly flatter and flatter until one day it’ll sound so horribly out of tune that you’ll wonder how you hadn’t picked up on it before. You don’t notice these things though, not until the string is stretched so tight that it’s likely to snap at any moment.

She felt sorry for this piano.

She took off a glove, ran her hand over the varnished mahogany, before lifting up the fall and pressing a key.

The note sounded out, as clear as a bell. A nearby pony looked up lazily from its hay, regarding her with its listless eyes before returning to his meal.

She looked up at him; a big oaf in a sailor outfit, smiling down at her.

“You like the piano, miss?” he said.

“Yes, very much so,” she answered, before gently shutting its lid.

                                                                    x

The Prof watching Whisky.

So, this is my mate's dog Whisky.

 

 And this is him talking (sorry, I can't work out how to embed the video here):

<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/video/embed?video_id=10151398625423046" width="226" height="400" frameborder="0"></iframe>

And this is Barney watching that video:

 

 

What a wuss.

 

 

x

Rise of the Beach Bunnies

Here's an article which I wrote for Uni about women in surfing. Enjoy:

Rise of the Beach Bunnies

“Surfing and sex are inseparable,” says inertia.com surf editor Tetsuhiko Endo, but with uneven contest prize money and sponsorship, do surfing and sexism come just as intertwined.

Surfing has always been, and probably always will be, a male dominated sport. Studies by the International Surfing Association (ISA) estimate that worldwide there are between 17 to 23 million surfers, and out of those surfers, 15-20% are female. But according to recent Global Industry Analyst reports, the worldwide surf market continues to become more female and older, and considering that it is expected to reach $13.24 billion (£8.34 billion) by the year 2017, this is no small movement. So, with these statistics in mind, why do the women’s tours stand first to lose events due to lack of funds, why do women surf the worst contest conditions and why do four of the world’s top seventeen women surfers lack a major sponsor?

 “The female side of the surf industry is about selling clothes, that’s where the companies’ main income comes from,” says Lucia Griggi, world-renowned surf photographer. And to sell the clothes, the surfer needs to look good, hence the reason why many major sponsors are more willing to give money to girls who fit the mould.  “What that keeps reinforcing in women,” says Queen of Teahupoo, Keala Kennelly to Endo on interia.com, “is that it is more important to be beautiful, than it is to have talent or skill, or to be accomplished.”

                                                             Keala surfing Jaws.

Women’s surfing does not attract the sponsors or audience of men’s surfing, and even though the Association of Surfing Professionals (ASP) set a rule that stating that any company who runs a World Championship Tour (WCT) event must stage a women’s event as well, this appears to be largely ignored. Louise Searle, editor of Surfgirl magazine says that “the surf industry is in a bit of a mess at the moment [...] which is why women who rip, like Paige [Hareb] are funding themselves. [The surf companies] need to stay strong and remember their roots, the women’s tour reflects this confusion and is leaving the girls frustrated, but the way they’re marketed means [that] frock sales are more important than a thrilling final in Hawaii.”

This would certainly explain why surfers like Hareb have no World Tour sponsor, as the brands would prefer to support younger, more commercial surfers such as Laura Enever or Sage Erikson. Griggi, who travels on the tours with the professional surfers, explains, “The companies don’t have [a large enough] budget to cover all girls, [so] they choose the most marketable.” This means that there are two types of riders on the tour, the few who are considered less attractive but have earned a reputation as a good surfer, and the girls who are not as good at surfing, but who look good in the clothes. Very few manage to straddle the line.

The girls are, of course, aware of this and tailor themselves accordingly. Even Nike’s 2011 Leave a Message film, which by many was viewed as a more credible girls surf movie showing “groundbreaking aerials and long barrels”, still has a suspiciously large amount of footage of Monyca Byrne-Wickey doing bottom turns in tiny  bikinis, not to mention Laura Enever surfing in a pair of fishnet stockings. And this is by no means a recent occurrence, Wendy Botha, a four times ASP world champion in the 1980s, posed naked for playboy. “It might be an indictment of surfing,” says the surfline website, that Botha “is better known for her spread in Playboy than for her incredible sporting achievements. That fact says a lot about the pro surfing reportage of the past 20 years -- that due to a male-dominated, and generally uninterested, surf media, some of surfing's greatest champions have been ignored.”

Pro surfer Alana Blanchard

Professional female surfers are aware that they are expected to walk the fine line between elite athlete and poster girl. But they do so at the risk of sabotaging their credibility and reputation, not to mention potentially compromising their surfing, as generally a smaller physique means less power in turns. And the question needs to be asked, are these surfers contributing to the objection by their compliance to these ideals, forming a perpetual cycle of body image obsession.  Unfortunately, according to the advertising, it is not considered sexy to be athletic and strong.

The general, grass roots image of surfing can be defined by mediums which are accessible to all. Of the top 36 most viewed photos, tagged as ‘surf girl’ on magicseaweed.com, only eight of those depict girls actually surfing. And one of those seems popular solely for the fact that she is about to run over a pelican. And if you type the name of Maya Gabeira, who is arguably the best all round, female, big wave rider in the world, into a Google image search, there are  no photos of her actually surfing until the third page. Gabeira actually took a step further in the sex appeal stakes by surfing naked for the ESPN Body Issue feature, which by its own admission enables the readers to “gawk” at professional athletes, appearing alongside Steph Gilmore, Claire Bevilacqua, and Men’s 11 times World Champion, Kelly Slater.

 

And the pros feel the pressure, 2011 Red Bull Women’s World Champion Carissa Moore stated on her blog that she often feels judged on her looks, stating that she has “trouble with her weight” and can feel self-conscious performing “in front of thousands of people in a bikini”. But as Searle remarked, “If I was Carissa, I would feel self conscious too, but I can guarantee no one is watching her for looks, but for her surfing skills.” However the question needs to be asked, why would one of the sport’s top female competitors feel the need to conform to a physical ideal. And could women conquer the balancing act of being feminine and powerful, or in the eyes of the surfing community, are these mutually exclusive.

But this is set to change as more and more girls join the line up. “I see way more girls out there,” says Jon, 37, a local Glamorgan coast surfer who has been surfing since childhood, “it used to be a surprise to see a girl paddling out, but there’s definitely more now. And they’re getting better and better.” A sentiment which seems to divide local surfers, as Jamie, 39, says, “Having a girl in the line up changes the mood, all the guys start to get all competitive and macho trying to impress her. At the end of the day, I surf to get away from my missus.”

“I prefer to surf with women,” says Porthcawl resident Jessica, 31, “the vibe is friendly and less competitive. I feel that men judge the women first on their looks, and then watch to see if we can actually stand up on a board.” Griggi illustrates, “Some men have a little lack of respect [for women surfers], and will drop in on you as they expect you not to make the wave [...], if you were a guy they would not do this as much.” Many female surfers will be used to being judged when they surf, especially in spots which are considered more challenging. The impromptu audience feeling will probably be all too familiar, guys want to know if you can handle yourself, and the best way to counteract this according to Griggi is to “get a wave [and show] them you can surf, then they will leave you alone!”

However, regardless of the stereotypes, the surf industry cannot help but take notice of the changing face of women’s surfing. Surfing hardware is catching up to the standard of the men’s as the demand for quality women’s wetsuit and wetsuit accessories increases. Pro longboarder Kassia Meador has designed a fashion conscious wetsuit range for Roxy, and the breadth of choice in women’s suits has increased noticeably over the last few years. And the women themselves are proving to the men that girls can surf just as hard as them, from Justine Dupont’s October  tow-in session at a massive Aileen, during which she scored some of the biggest tubes ever ridden by a woman in Europe, to Lakey Peterson’s technical air reverses.

 

And the effect is global, through the Gaza Surf Retreat Project, girls are breaking down the gender barrier in Palestine where the first female surf lifeguard has just been appointed, and in Cuba, women bond through their love of surfing in a poverty stricken, isolated country where trade embargoes mean that even the most basic surf equipment is inaccessible.

Between us we are getting bigger barrels, taking steeper drops, boosting higher airs and we are all contributing to the changing the face of women’s surfing. “Most women and girls bring something more than beauty and a sociological/psychological shift to the lineup,” says Surfermag’s Rob Gilley, “they bring understanding. They bring grace. They bring joy. To a pack of posturing men they bring the rarest commodity of all: they bring smiles [...]. And if a girl happens to paddle out, I want you to think long and hard before you snake the living daylights out of her.”

So, with girls charging harder than ever before and pushing the boundaries further and further, women all over the world are standing up to be counted, and it seems only a matter of time before the phrase ‘You surf like a girl’ will be a compliment.

The Terra Nova Expedition.

The Antarctic Expedition of 1910

New year, new module and this term we are doing historical fiction, centered specifically around Captain Scott's ill-fated journey to the South Pole. We are focusing on Edgar Evans (Taff), who was born in Rhosilli and was a member of the crew. He is on the right:

This is a fictionalised account of Evans walking down St Mary Street in 1910.

Off the train, across the street and there it is. The castle. I can see it down the end of the road, and I know that if I went to the corner I could see the clock tower, and the flags. And those animals with the glass eyes that make it look like they’re staring at you. They look like I could poke them out with a stick. I like the seal one the best, reminds me of my last trip down South, with the Captain.

If you stand still too long people walk right into you. Not like at home. When it’s really busy, I press myself into a doorway out of the way of the men and women and carriages and children, and just watch. The people don’t seem to notice me at all, they’re all selling and buying, and hustling and bustling. It’s hot today, even though the ladies try to make out they don’t feel it, with their umbrellas and fans. I can feel it though, I lift up my hat and wipe the sweat off with a hankie.

There’s horses, loads of them, clattering up and down, carrying people and goods. They don’t half stink. This summer afternoon doesn’t help, makes the smell ten times worse. Someone wants to get into the door behind me so I have to move, I wander further down the road over the uneven cobbles. There’s a newsboy on the corner, selling newspapers, he’s shouting, “Read about it here ! Scott voyages from Cardiff to the Antarctic”. Seeing it written like that makes me nervous, I keep my head down and just keep walking.

I can see a few pubs, up and down the street and down alleyways. I jingle the change in my pocket. A man could get lost in a crowd like this. A sudden smell of hops makes up my mind for me. I flip a coin to a beggar on my way through the stained glass doors, and take a seat at the bar.


D'Arcs Waxworks

So, it turns out that on St Mary Street there used to be a waxworks, which opened in April 1884 and was known as “Mons. D’Arc’s Grand Waxwork Exhibition, Cosmoramic Views and Waxen Marionettes”. Here is the 1911 census slip for the address:

As you can (kind of) see, the widow D'Arc lived there with her married male servant, but his wife is not at the same address. Also listed are the amount of children she had, three of which died, and their places of birth. In the interests of historical fiction we were asked to write a creative piece which expands on their relationship and, and this is mine. It is again written from the point of view of Edgar Evans.

Wax on.

“This way, Mr Evans,” he said as he led me through to the back, “I can’t believe it’s really you, our first real celebrity. I’ll show you our special collection, yes I will. You can see with your own eyes.”

I followed him through the penny slot arcade. Past the sleeping sailor with his painted grin, ready to bounce into life, and the lines of ladies waiting to dance behind the glass. They looked like broken dolls. The lamplight bounced off the organ grinder’s monkey’s bead eyes as we passed. It made it look like he was watching us.

“Mr Evans. I can’t believe it, our very own explorer. Wait till I tell the Lady about this! She’s not here now, she’s out on...business. She’ll be back soon though, yes she will.”

I asked him where we were going, the passage was so dark and cramped. I couldn’t even stand up straight.

“Just a little bit further, Mr Evans. It’s worth the wait, it really is.”

He stopped in front of a wooden door and fumbled through a ring of keys. There were three locks.

“You have to be very quiet in here, Mr Evans. They’re sleeping,” he whispered, “the Lady says that no one is allowed in here, but I’ll show you. Just you though. It’s my best work. It can be our secret.”

He opened the door.

Inside, sat round the table were four figures; a man in his Sunday best who looked to be about 60, and three young children. The table was laid for supper, and there was a bowl of fresh fruit and a gas lamp on the table.

“Ain’t they beautiful?” he hissed.

They really were well made, they almost looked alive.

I said that they were lovely, but I didn’t recognise them. I thought they were supposed to be famous.

“No, no, no,” he said, “These ain’t famous. These are hers. I made them myself.”

I said he did a good job.

“You want to know the secret? How I made them look so good?” He smiled, “well, you see the teeth, those are their teeth. And you see their hair, well that’s their hair. And the fingernails? Those are theirs too. It took me a while to find a way to do the eyes, but I did. And don’t they look grand. Look almost as good as they did when they was alive.”

I started to back towards the door.

“No wait!” he gasped, “you’ll miss the best bit.” He then took a penny from the tray and put in into a slot on the table. He stood back, triumphantly.

I heard cogs clicking and whirring, and the sound of metal on metal. Then some music started playing, something that little’uns would listen to. It seemed to come from everywhere. The lamp on the table began to turn, throwing shapes onto the wall and across the figures. And then with a clank, they too began to move, lifting up their cups and nodding their heads like they were talking.

“Ain’t they magnificent,” he breathed.

I felt the door behind me, backed through it, thanked him, and then turned and ran.

Flash fiction! Stream of consciousness assessment piece

So, this is the edited, extended version of the Virginia Woolf-inspired stream of consciousness piece which I have submitted for the Urban and Contemporary Creative Writing textual response assessment, I hope it does ok!

Anyway:

Locked Out

The filament sparks to life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down for an extra half hour. Not anymore.

“Morning Jack,” they say as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate, I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed, hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that they gossip secretly about my package, or wrinkle their noses at my nightly bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.

Before I got really bad I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastator’, now reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care. I sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.

We go through the routine: pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I used to leave a designer stubble, but that appears to have fallen by the way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they take my nice clothes and dress me like a twat, and my socks never match).

Breakfast is usually chosen, although not by me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix, mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look at a Weetabix ever again, I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed, pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of course, against my better judgement it’s easy to swallow, and it really is simpler to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to really grate me.

It usually involves them driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so, laying out my ineptitude for all the public to see. A big flashing sign over my head;

 ‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’,

 or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this morning’,

or the old favourite ‘He may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’.

On one particular day, I was parked in the corner of the cafe, that one which we always go to. They like it because it looks out over the lake, plus there’s a nice covered outside area where they can take it in turns to chain smoke.  They bring the stink back in with them, clinging to their Primark polyester. I can smell it on their breath as they lean in close to bring the straw to my lips or wipe the dribble off my chin. It turns my stomach.

They were discussing one of the other carers, who they suspected to be shagging one of the bosses. 

“Jenna seen ‘em in town holding hands”, one said.

“She’s a right slapper anyway, she is. I heard that one time she were caught on a Fanta crate round the back of the Legion. Letting three guys take turns on her, she was.” said the other.

“And now she’s strutting around like she owns the place. Slag.”

I had zoned out and was letting my eyes wander, when in walked Benny Marlon, the Marlonator, Slimy Marlon, Benny Benny ‘got a blowjob from his sister’ Marlon. I recognised him instantly, he looked exactly like he did in school.  He even dressed the same, as if he just rolled around in the bargain bucket at Sports Direct.

Benny fucking Marlon.

A guy who, in year 9, was caught peeking in round the back of the girls changing rooms with a hole in his pocket. Who, when 16 years of age, was almost (he wasn’t, but should’ve been) convicted of raping an unconscious 13 year old down the park after plying her with Mad Dog 20/20, and who, rumour has it, did indeed have more than a good time with his younger sister. He’d dropped out of school when he was 15 and started peddling sketchy batch drugs to kids, earned the delightful monikers Benny ‘K and MDMA’ Marlon and Benny Brain Mangler.

Yet there he was, standing gloriously upright, walking and talking and skiing and roller-skating and whatever else took his fancy. Hell, he could even turn his life around and become a Ballroom champion if he wanted to. And furthermore he had little Marlonites, a veritable herd of them. How delightful for him, his own ready-made target market.

I prayed he wouldn’t come my way, but of course he did. I averted my eyes as he shuffled past, all Lambert and Butler and Lynx Africa. I stared at a passing swan with such intent that you’d think it was about to turn inside out. My body still pointed his way though, it was ludicrously obvious. I could feel his eyes locked onto me, laser pointing the side of my face as he passed. Oh yes, he’d recognised me all right, he’d probably sent some texts about it; ‘Guess who I jst seen. Jack Smith! Luks like a right spazz. Lol’, or some other retarded, text speak wank. I could hear him hissing about me as they unceremoniously snapped off my breaks and wheeled me out the door.

Twat.

Christmas

The view was awe-inspiring from that part of the woods, high up on the hill. I could look out over row up row of peaked pines, the light breeze prodding the reluctant clouds into a morning stroll. Yes, it was a good day. 

And then, I heard it. The omenous drone. They were coming. They arrived in their uniform of scarves, with their mocking, bright colours, a whole group of them. I tried to blend into the background, but they pointed me out, they picked me. They had decided that I was the prime candidate for what it was that happened to us when we were taken away. Whatever it was, they never came back. Not once they were taken.

It was my time.

I didn't want to go. I watched them bring out the it out, the thing that made us fall.

I pleaded as they brought it closer and closer to me, tried to brace myself. I screamed in silence, as the metal teeth made contact and then cut into my exposed flesh, biting and hacking. My dead air agony fell on deaf ears. They didn't seem to care at all.

I fell heavily to the soil, before looking up at the sky for the last time. Then I lost consciousness.

I woke up in a strange room, propped in a corner, my nakedness strung up to be judged and leered over. They had adorned my broken body in baubles and ornaments and knotted me in lights. Condemned to a slow, lonely death under the searing bulbs. The humiliation had been furthered by branding me with a star, a garish reminder of my shame.

They looked on my dishonoured body with satisfied smiles, seeming to care little for the sap I bled onto the carpet...

 

 

x

The Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson.

Herro!
 
So, The Powerbook is a rather strange book accounting two people falling in love over the internet through stories which they write concerning themselves. Well, that's my interpretation of it anyway. It's described on goodreads.com as this:
 
'Adding to an already astounding body of work that explores the nature of love and desire, Jeanette Winterson (Sexing the Cherry, Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, The Passion) presents a stunning novel that probes the boundaries of the Internet. Ali writes stories on email for anyone who wants them. She promises “freedom just for one night,” but she does not do so without a warning: the story might change you. Ask for an epic love story and you will get one, but Ali will be cast in it, too, and the lines between the real and imagined may blur. Plucking characters from history and myth, Winterson journeys through time and stops in London, Paris, and Capri, all the while melding the language of love with that of computers. In The PowerBook she has found a brilliant conceit through which to showcase her increasingly bold voice.'

So, our writing prompt exercise this week was to right about a contemporary couple in a historical setting or a historical couple in a contemporary setting.

So I wrote about

In:

In the style of:

And here it is:

“Ok, now open your eyes.”

She looked around her, attempting to distinguish the objects in the gloom, they revealed themselves gradually. There was a barrel of fermented berry juice, a heap of mushrooms, some of those dried leaves which tasted like burning, a couple of dehydrated adders and more than enough lines of crushed beetle dust. A bloated toad croaked flatulently from inside his cage, cautiously eyeing a batch of frogs’ skins. They looked suspiciously...toad-like.

“Do you like it? I thought we could have a night in, you know, just the two of us, get a little sideways.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I even got some new stuff in” he added, producing a small leather pouch from his belt, “it’s dried toad. You rub it in your gums like this, see?” he demonstrated, revealing his crumbling teeth. The toad wheezed audibly. “It’s new, from the continent. It tastes like hell but it has a kick to it, makes my eyes point in different directions.”

She was disappointed. They were supposed to be having a relaxing night in, kicking back by the fire. The last time he had got this much gear in, she had spent half the night trying to coax him off the battlements, scraps of his trousers were still caught in the big tree outside. The villagers were beginning to talk. She sighed.

“Come on, just do a couple of lines of beetle. You know how I like it when you get a little bit loose.”

She looked at the toad, who looked back at her through narrowed eyes.

“Oh ok,” she said “but just one line.”

                                                                       x