Campaigning with the Barmy Army

Despite holding the Sydney event in a bar next door to another which proudly proclaimed itself to be the "HQ of the Barmy Army", we had largely avoided the thousands of unofficial ambassadors for the England & Wales Cricket Board.  No so in Perth.  The streets throng with a plethora of pudgy and pasty pint-bearing pedestrians all wearing various versions of the official England strip over the last ten years.

The locals seem remarkably accommodating considering the "in-yer-face" chauvinism on offer from these tourists, but, on the other hand, given the prices in Australia (and Perth in particular) they are probably just grinning all the way to the bank.  Given my own view that an oval of well-manicured grass is best lived and munched on  rather than run around on chasing a small bit of compressed leather, I think we should just leave them to it.

Be all that is it may, we ensconced ourselves in the slightly noisy Ocean Beach Hotel for the ninth event of this tour, and welcomed a dozen or so Aberites who nearly all seemed to know someone else in the room already.  This led to a highly convivial atmosphere, Aussie-style, with Julian spending a lot of his time dispatching the highly scurrilous rumour that Aber doesn't teach Geology any more.  Given that the majority of the alumni present were Geology graduates, this was rather important.  Manfully reading out a briefing note he had obtained but did not understand, Julian manfully spoke confidently of Earth Sciences, laser ablation systems and ICP mass spectrometers.  I don't think it convinced any of the geologists but it sounded very impressive to the rest of us.

The gracious Ann Boyer was kind enough to hold me for the benefit of the camera (and I would request that anyone else expecting to cop a feel of my woolly coat during this trip notices the gentle and respectful way she did it) and Ann and everyone else was kind enough not to mention that Julian was massively over-dressed for the occasion.    I think ties in Perth are only used to hold up tramps' trousers.

Julian now is "clocking off" for a couple of weeks holiday.  He intends to play golf, watch cricket, sink a few "tinnies" and try his best to get his internal clock back onto some form of even keel.  Living for three weeks without more than two hours sleep at a time will take its toll I suppose, but I think he's just a whingeing pom, to use the local parlance.  For myself, I'm trying without success to find a sheep-shearer to enable me to be just a tad cooler.  Can you believe that no-one round here knows how to trim a ewe?

I hope to pop back into this blogosphere before January once or twice, but the next formal communication will not be until we reach Singapore on January 3.  Merry Christmas to everyone.

Victory Victoria

We flew to Melbourne in the late morning, Qantas having lived up to its record to date by changing the flight time without telling us.  Since this always seems to be later than advertised, this has caused us no undue problems to date, but Julian has told me to graze the internet in future to check the times.

Melbourne is a very different place to Sydney.  For a start, there are vastly fewer tourists and it has a cramped feel after the wide open spaces of the docks and quays of Sydney.  This is not helped by a traffic system designed around a tram network that very few people seem to use.  For example, one is required to swing left in order to turn right, and the mixture of one way systems and tramlines in almost every street ensured that the hotel shuttle (from which, as usual, we were the last passengers disgorged) seemed to double back on itself a zillion times in order to reach the next hotel in the list.

Amidst all of this ordered chaos, the Lundrum Hotel, where we held the evening's reception, was a true oasis of refinement and quietude.   Everyone rostered turned up and, as might be expected from a sheep-loving state, I was treated with the utmost respect.   Julian, on the other hand, has got into an annoying habit of introducing me as the embodiment of the mischievous nature of his staff at Aber ... "stitching me up with a bleating stuffed toy" was the most recent comment.  He seems to forget that I have proved singificantly more popular amongst the alumni than he has thus far, and I have received significantly more hugs.

We are, whatever our differences, beginning to take a warm welcome almost for granted (which is probably a dangerous thing to do).  The Melbourne crowd were no different, chatting away to each other immediately and giving Julian an attentive hearing followed by pertinent and insightful questions.    As ever, the two hour event soon stretched to three, and only Julian's insistence that his early morning flight to Perth required at least a modicum of sleep brought yet another excellent evening to a close.

One final point worthy of mention:  a distinguished guest for the evening (even if she is a Bangor alumna), Heather Ithell came especially from Adelaide to represent her son, Richard, who died tragically young and who was a promising lawyer.  Richard's particular interests were civil and human rights, and a prize in his name has been established in the Law & Criminology Department for the best dissertation in this area from a final year student.  Additional support for this prize is needed and would be gratefully received:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/RichardIthellMemorialFund

Aussie Rules

Sydney - we barely recognised the place.  Well, for me that was hardly surprising since I've never been here before, but Julian had drunk from this particular barrel fifteen years ago and the city has been transformed since then.  A mixture of Manhattan and Malibu, the skyscrapers and the seafronts and harbours create a riot of skylines and bustle.  It is full of tourists but without the feeling that everyone is being gulled or pandered to.  There is a brightness, not unsurprisingly given the blue sky and beating sun, about the place which is totally beguiling.

One of the problems with coming to Sydney in December is that so many locals tend to leave the place at this time of year.  Thus, we both knew that we were likely to have a smaller gathering than in other places.  In the event, just three Aberites joined us in the Quay Bar at the historic Customs House at Circular Quay.  However, what they lacked in numbers they more than made up for in enthusiasm. 

The venerable Doctor Pong, originally from Hong Kong from where he traveled to Aber to study Computer Science in the late 1970s, had photographs of his department from those days.  There are still members of staff from then at the University who appeared in these photos, looking like Open University lecturers with their appalling taste in tank tops, whiskers (you will forgive me if I refrain from using the term "mutton chops"), and flared trousers.  

Sophie Greenfield was a bubbling font of affection for Aber and infectious good humour, with tales to tell of her time at the University that I will not embarrass her to repeat here, but if you can imagine a sheep blushing ....  Sophie had abandoned the design of her son's birthday cake for the meeting ... sorry, son.

Finally, there was Simon Ashley.  Simon, having been in Australia for over twenty years but having "commuted" for a fair amount of that time to Las Vegas, and having been born and bred in Wolverhampton, has an accent one has to hear to fully appreciate.  A passionate Wolves supporter, his good humour and charm can only be dented by the mention of a certain football team resident in Manchester and managed by a dour Scot.

I was treated like one of the family, and the group refused the usual in-room photo opportunity, insisting that we decamp across the road to the Sydney Opera House to take a suitably Aussie snap.

The formal proceedings having been completed, we were then frogmarched to one of many pubs in Sydney that proudly boast that they are the oldest in the country.  Sophie and Simon had decided that Julian needed educating in the ways of significant Sydney watering holes, and the Lord Nelson was certainly a must-see.  Having been raised on a diet of Aber grass and rainwater, I soon became a victim of Aussie hospitality.  Julian appeared to keep his end up with more aplomb, but he's like a bear with a sore head this morning and I am keeping my distance.

Australians are suffering from post-traumatic stress following their defeat in the second Test, and it is taking all of Julian's not particularly legendary tact to avoid cavorting up and down the streets singing "Barmy Army" with the same monotonous and iritating regularity shown by the barrel-bellied fans who are still all over Sydney having failed to realise that the next test is in Perth.  Tomorrow on to Melbourne, home to the MCG and Neighbours!

Practising one's French over the Pacific

Qantas, the world's safest airline (having never having had a fatal crash), does have a slight problem with its new Airbus A380, the world's largest commercial airliner.  Thus it was, as stated in my last posting, that Julian received an email stating that he would instead be flying by Jumbo Jet to Australia.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to realise that a Jumbo is not as large as an A380 so we arrived at the airport to discover that the plane was overbooked.  We were given the choice of a jump seat somewhere in the luggage compartment or a transfer to a Tahiti Nui Airlines flight.    Never one to shun adventure, Julian immediately plumped for a few Tahitian beauties with flowers in their hair and off to the South Seas we went.

Zut alors, quelle surprise!  They speak French in Tahiti which presumably explains why they were so nice to the dastardly mutineers of the Bounty, and the English of the air stewardesses was a mixture of the deliciously mispronounced and the French equivalent of the English tourist abroad - don't translate at all merely say it in the original language loudly and slowly.  

Thus Julian had the opportunity to practice his halting French which drew the immense gratitude of the stewardesses, and the envy and ire of the other passengers, and meant he was rewarded with extra cups of coffee and wonderfully attentive service.   His ability to explain to the other passengers that "pwa-aunnes" were prawns and then to simultaneously translate it back for the staff as "langoustines" shows the basically menu-driven nature of his French.

All of this was merely the plus-side of what was a fairly irritating journey.  As you will all know, the pleasure or otherwise of a long flight is almost completely based upon who you are sitting next to.  On this journey we had one of the great fidgetters of all time in the seat next to us.  Having boarded the plane a full forty minutes before take-off, he was still getting yet one more thing out of his bag, repacking the rest, restowing it in the overhead locker, talking to his ex-wife on his Blackberry about whether their son should take a job offer, texting the son his views, finding that he didn't have the little wallet to hold his Blackberry and getting one of his bags down yet again to look for it, ignoring the pleas of Wa'a'auni to turn his phone off, sit down and do his belt up, when the plane began taxiing. 

Life continued pretty much like that following take-off.    The number of times he raided his two bags and sorted out things of no relevance to being three thousand miles from anywhere and 50,000 feet up, were probably about the same as would be required to complete an entire stocktake for Amazon.  By now, Julian was beginning to feel the need to use the facilities.  This was to be denied him.  Having exhausted himself doing 2,461 stand-ups and sit downs, the neighbour placed his briefcase in front of him, raised his TV screen from the armrest but didn't turn it on, put the seat in full recline and promptly started snoring - not particularly loudly but just enough to bore into one's very being like a miniature Black and Decker.

We were now effectively trapped.  The person in front also had the seat reclined so it was barely possible to stand up, the TV screen meant one could not wriggle at an angle, and the briefcase took the space where one would have to put one's feet even if one could squeeze past.  We suffered.  It was probably worse for Julian because he has not had to spend nights on bare mountains where the temperature was just too low to dare to relieve oneself, but I was starting to think longingly of babbling brooks well before Mr Fidget finally woke up and started watching US sitcoms to which he laughed out loud on numerous occasions.

Thus it was that the ministrations of Wa'a'auni and Mui-mui kept sanity and airline murder rates low on board as we winged our way for fifteen interminable hours to Sydney.  I had to pretend to be a stuffed toy in order to get through Australia's stringent quarantine vetting, but I was willing to play along with this pathetic travesty of ovine rights just to get to the hotel, follow Julian in having a good shower just in time to get to the venue for the Sydney event ... about which more anon.

The California Cold Rush

More complaints about the cold from the Californians - it's 70 degrees for goodness sake!  I have come to appreciate that it is not that it is particularly cold in Wales (albeit we have been chortling excessively about how bad the weather seems to be back home), it's that our central heating system's are so bad that we get used to draughts and below 68 degree living conditions, not to mention freezing offices until the head of RHS at Aber decides to put the heating on every year.  Thus, what we regard as mild is actually freezing to an American, but they cope with real cold weather much better as well.

Anyhow, back to California.  Julian made a fairly huge fool of himself upon arrival at the hotel by forgetting he was driving an automatic with the handbrake on the other side and letting his car roll back into the BMW behind.  No damage was done, no-one lost their temper, so naturally he is expecting a multi-million dollar lawsuit in due course citing a write-off of the Beamer, whiplash to the driver, personal anguish and distress, as well as loss of earnings.

But he made it to Pasadena without killing either of us.  I really do not understand why tourists are allowed on the roads here in charge of tons of potentially lethal machinery.  You can turn right on a red signal, turning left is simply a nightmare, multi-lane freeways have absolutely no lane discipline whatsoever, and Julian is arguing with the SatNav which is a distracting and somewhat pointless exercise.

It was therefore a huge relief to get to the venue, the offices of yet another star alumna in Angela Hawekotte, where she and her friends and colleagues had laid on a magnificent spread - enough probably for the entire alumni body in the US and certainly more than could be managed by the attendees.  It was delicious, however, and even I managed to pick at some rice and peas which, whilst not best Welsh grass, was still welcome after our traumatic day.  Angela had also managed to find some British beer which, tragically, Julian had to decline.  I don't care about him, you understand, but I usually get some when he drinks it.

By this time, Julian was starting to wilt.  He fronted up, though, and couldn't help but be swept along by the enthusiasm and friendliness around him and the genuinely positive response to his bumbling speech.  As usual, the event over-ran and we found ourselves driving back "Downtown" in an even more precarious process than heretofore.

Now it is off to the land down under, where Aussie cricketers weep and sheep wander.  Notwithstanding that it's a fourteen hour flight, Julian is pleased because Qantas have decided to change the A380 (you know, the new megaplanes with the optional engines) to a good old-fashioned Jumbo jet.  I'm just looking forward to seeing a few of my 38,000,000 cousins.

So it's Sydney next time, you little beauties, and a fair dinkum do!

Houston, we have a problem

Well, actually we didn't, but I wasn't going to let the facts get in the way of a good blog title.    Despite the cow-ist tendencies again in evidence, I wasn't run out of the city on a rail.  In fact, my natural charm and sheepish features seemed to go down rather well.

We arrived in Houston in what was being regarded as "the big freeze".  This entailed clear blue skies and a temperature in the mid 50s.  In other words, Julian took off his jacket just as the Texicans were taking off their stetsons and putting on their woollie hats (something of which I am naturally in favour).  Locals tell me that the summers in this city are one long sauna, with incedible heat and high humidity.  If this is the case, I'm rather glad to be here now.

Houston is not a place for the errant pedestrian.  One can wait for Godot before the little red hand on the street crossing turns to a white walking figure, and then one has about four seconds to cross twelve lanes before it starts flashing red again.  Being, as my dear followers may appreciate, somewhat challenged in the leg department (okay, I've got four of them but they are damned short) this occasioned bursts of sprinting of which Usain Bolt would have been rightly proud.   Neither, strangely enough, are there a surfeit of taxis in the city, so we made friends with the first one we booked and he turned up regular as clockwork to swish us to the next appointment.

The reception in Houston was a hoot - or is that a hootenanny?  Art Hall was the star of this particular performance, having set up the evening at the historic Hearsay Restaurant & Lounge and doing it all from San Antonio (which is not exactly next door).  On top of Art, we had a field of oilmen who got on famously, knowing lots of people in common and putting the world (or at least the industry) to rights as well as asking Julian just the sort of difficult questions he relishes about alumni relations and the way for Aber to raise its profile internationally.  They didn't seem particularly interested in the equally challenging questions I was asking about how they could call an oilfield a field when there was no grass in it.  And then there was Jane:  Julian fell in love with this pugnacious, adorable and hugely entertaining lady.  She was also very forgiving because I was expecting Julian to be flying across the room after he called her a "feisty old broad"!  Finally we had an alumna expecting a prospective alumnite so Julian gave her the heavy "sell".

As is happening too often on this trip, the timetable soon went to hell and gone and we were chatting away for hours after the event was supposed to have finished.  Julian got up the next morning whingeing about lack of REM sleep, knowing his flight to California was via Dallas and a longish layover, to be followed by driving a hire car to Pasadena.  I told him to learn our trick of sleeping standing up.

Chicago, Chicago, it's my sort of town

The title for this post was forced on me by Julian, our unimaginative Development Director, who keeps on humming the tune at the most inappropriate moments.  For me, this is hell - a whole city apparently devoted to merely one thing - beef!  I've been here 24 hours now and have yet to see even a hint of lamb on a menu.  Now, you may think I'd be pleased about this, but I know the place of sheep and our need to have an economic basis for existence.  If my cousins have to be rendered into chops for the good of the species, so be it ... and there's not much likelihood of that happening round here.

Anyhow, back to the mission in hand.  Sheepless though it may be, Chicago is actually a rather cool place.  It's more than cool ... it's bloody freezing.  But, the sun is shining, the people are hospitable and friendly (as long as you don't ask them how the Bears are doing this season), and we had yet another excellent event last night.

We had definitely gone up in the world.  To the 37th Floor to be exact, in the magnificent meeting room of Drinker Biddle & Reath where works yet another extraordinarily good guy in Matt Bird who set the whole thing up for us.  (BTW - have you noticed how all law firms founding partners have strange names?  Where's the Smith Smith Jones and Williams law firm?).  It was genuinely chuffifying to enter this skyscraper office block and see a big sign on an easel welcoming the Aber Alumni Reception, then to have one's vital organs squashed against one's pelvis as the express lift took us shooting up to the stars, a receptionist to welcome us, badges already laid out for the guests and our own sommelier on hand for the whole evening to wait on our every need.  Julian reckons this set-up is so good he wants to introduce something similar in Aber.

And so, in these divine surroundings, we got to meet Jonathan and Wendy, Alex and Ellen, Jane, David and Charles.  They were all properly respectful of such a distinguished sheep as I most certainly am and didn't look too bad for having lived of a diet of cow!  It might be getting worse in that regard ... next stop Houston, Texas.  Yeeeeehah!

AU-DC

Washington - what a place!  And there was me thinking it was Bonn on steroids.  This place is so cool. 

First of all, Julian is happy because the hotel is great.  What he wants, he says, is what he needs without any fuss.  Room to swing a cat and a coffee machine plus internet access.  So he's a happy bunny - sad and easily satisfied human that he is.

More importantly, it's the people and the relative calm.  If a cab driver beeps his horn, its to say "I'm here", not "Oi!" as elsewhere.  People talk to you.  Even me, and I am used to the sheepist approach most humans take.

Not that everything is wonderful.  I was most annoyed to discover that my American cousins were no longer allowed to graze on the White House lawn.  I also, in the spirit of farm animal solidarity, attempted to bring Welsh greetings to the lame duck Congress but apparently they were too busy arguing about tax cuts in or with the barracks to receive me.    Nevertheless, I left my business card with the President and expect him to call at any moment.

Julian spent a lovely day in the capital.  A morning meeting with the delectable and delightful Maryamu Aminu followed by a wonderful lunch with Richard Herbert.  Maryamu works for Bono's ONE campaign and Richard has tried to retire twice from the World Bank and is hoping to succeed this year.

Then the evening reception which couldn't have happened without the extraordinary efforts of Debra Cope (genuflect, genuflect) who set us up in the wonderful offices of a prestigious DC law firm on Pennsylvania Avenue, just a stone's throw from the White House.  We didn't just have a great turn-out from those we knew were coming ... others turned up as the word of mouth spread.  (I would hasten to add that word of mouth spreading is very different from foot and mouth spreading.)  The room was bouncing and, as usual, all one has to do is say hello, give them a name badge and watch them get on famously together just as they did when they were Aber students.

I have one other caveat about DC.   I think they ought to look at their security a bit more.  Look at the following photograph.

Just a police car, I hear you say.  But look at the writing on the bottom of the car:  "United States Secret Service."  What's bloody secret about that?  A great white car with "Police" written all over it, blue flashing lights and a garish trim ... secret??  At least The Professionals drove round in boy racer cars and James Bond in an understated Aston Martin.  Well, we're off to Chicago tomorrow where I'm expecting to see burly men of Italian extraction walking around in fur-collared greatcoats and trilbies with arrows sticking out of their heads saying "Gangster". 

What youse lookin' at?

New York, New York - is there an echo in here?

After the colonial calm of Boston, we flew down to New York City.  Or at least Julian flew down to New York - I have to take his word for it since I was once again stuffed into his briefcase.  What made matters worse was that this time I was sharing the space with his dirty washing bag! 

Security at US airports is rigid as one might expect.  Belts, jackets, scarfs and shoes all have to be removed before going through the metal detector.  This caused me something of a problem since my cape is sewed on so I was forced to ride the conveyor belt through the x-ray machine.  I am expecting to find that my chances of motherhood have just been reduced.

New York is a great city, but its hotels are not.  Julian says this is about the fifth time he has been to the Big Apple and the fifth time he has been in a hotel where all the money seems to have been spent on the lobby at the expense of the rooms.  This one is particularly galling, with our room being placed next to the goods elevator and with no room to have one's suitcase open and walk around the bed.  The internet access doesn't work (hence this slightly delayed posting) and the view is of an air-conditioning unit that rattles incessantly.

Thank God, therefore, that we don't have time to spend much time in the hotel.  After a morning meeting with Patrick Quish in his offices, it's off to Grand Central Station (I looked in vain for Lex Luther's pad) for more tete-a-tetes with Tom Evans of Bloomberg TV and then David Morgan, Grand Wizard of the St David's Society in New York and general good egg.  There's then barely time to get to Wells Fargo bank for our reception hosted by Andy McDonald.  This is not the Wells Fargo I had imagined - there was nary a stetson in sight, no one riding shotgun, and we were treated to an excellent buffet with no bacon and beans at all.

There was a great diversity at this event, ranging from Anders, who had only graduated this summer from Film & TV, to David who wouldn't let me say when he graduated.  Rebecca and Susannah had been exchange students and were only in Aber for a short time but were just as enthusiastic as the rest.  Julian's speech is very good, I'm sure, but I have a horrible feeling that I am going to be sick to death of it after I've heard it for the thirteenth time on this trip.

After the event, we were taken by Rebecca and Patrick to the Waldorf Astoria for cocktails.  The high life or what?? There was a sniffy head waiter who said they didn't serve sheep, but I pointed out that I didn't want a sheep but a Manhattan and he relented.  After a couple of these challenging concoctions, it was back to the broom cupboard in our hotel and another sound sleep.

Boston Tea Party (hic)

Having spent the best part of the day staring out of the same window (yes, I got left on the windowsill again), it was finally time for our alumni gathering.  This was to take place near Harvard University in Cambridge which necessitated a taxi ride.

American taxi drivers are issued with concrete shoes along with their licences so that there is no danger of their ever accelerating or braking with anything other than sudden and excessive force.  This, along with the ubiquitous bench seats, ensures that one spends most of the journey sliding from one side of the car to the other whilst hanging on for grim death to ensure that one's dental work survives any sudden contact with the perspex partition separating one from the front.

Nevertheless, we survived the journey unscathed and arrived at the restaurant in good time.  This was fortunate since the venue appeared to have no record of our booking and the guy we had been dealing with was 3000 miles away on holiday!  Fortunately, Julian did something right for once and had his trusty iPhone to hand with the emails which proved the booking and, by the time the first guest arrived, everything had been sorted out.

And what great guests they were!  Elizabeth Ross had been our "point man" for the visit and was there with her long-suffering husband David.  The Lippkes, Julie and Chris, had come up from Connecticut with their equally patient daughters (who kindly put up with the nostalgia-binge with great good humour), and then there was Erin (future US president), Tracy (future industry mogul) and Gretchen (future wine taster to the stars) who all ensured the evening went with a swing.  They all appreciated a fine figure of a ewe and were suitably respectful to my exalted status as chief sheep.

Back Row:  Gretchen Kerr, Chris Lippke, Jon Antoniazzi, Bethan Foweraker, Alun Minifey, David Ross, Elizabeth Ross

Front Row:  Erin Belitskus, Rhiannon Wade, Tracy Stokes, Julie Lippke, Naomi Allen

On Lap:  Baabaa Blodwyn Wooliams

And then there were the sabbatical team from Aber.  What can one say about these reprobates?  They came dressed up having spent most of the afternoon (and a large part of the Union's 2011 budget) in Macy's on new wardrobes but had nevertheless found time to check that bars in America sell the same types of alcohol as in Wales.  They had clearly been diligent in their research, as one would expect of former students of a research-led University, but had cleverly retained sufficient capacity to be able to check that the reception's wine was equally palatable.  They brought a natural enthusiasm and boisterousness to the event which was, I have to say, rather infectious.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur.  Once the married couples and children had made their getaway, we were dragged off to a cafe for a traditional burger dinner (I had to explain that lamb was NOT on the menu) and then to a live music "dive" the like of which Julian had not been to since the 1970s.  Plastic glasses and large men in sunshades on the door and the indignity of having one's hand stamped brought his time adoring Hawkwind and Lindisfarne back to him with a jolt.

It was past the witching hour when Julian finally insisted I stop chatting up Erin about her political career and return with him to the hotel.  I didn't mind having to go so much as the way in which he did it - coming up behind me and barking loudly is not very funny.