To say that my dad is slightly pessimistic, is like saying that the American government is slightly corrupt, or male Korean pop stars are slightly effeminate. To say that my dad is a little resolute in his thinking, is like saying the Israeli's are a little trigger happy or the South African's are a little racist.
That is to say, my dad is a pessimistic, resolute prick at times. But he's funny and I love him, as do most people - and that's why he gets away with it (usually).
The Mittons are on a tour of New Zealand in a campervan. Now if that is not a recipe for disaster I don't know what is! In fact there are far too many incidents to document in one story, so here is a quick summary of some of the events that occurred in the run up to us arriving at Te Ana-au Caves (where this story plays out).
Day 1 - My parents emerge late at the airport arrivals gate, where I am waiting for them. Mum is flummoxed because she has lost her sleeping bag on the carousel (never to be retrieved). By 8 o'clock that evening, the sleeping bag incident is irrelevant, as she realises that she has left her travel bag containing passports, air tickets and $5000 NZ in cash - on the bus. Amazingly we get it back. The holiday continues in similar vain. During the 4 week period, we almost kill an endangered species bird (by feeding it a jelly bean), we break the campervan windscreen, leave the porta toilet at a beauty spot by mistake, crash the campervan 4 times (all of which are worthy of their own stories), and for the grand finale, our camper van gets broken into, whilst we bathe at Hotwater Bay. This time we lose the aforementioned travel bag forever, including the passports, air tickets and around $3000 NZ in cash. My dad also gets his rucksack stolen and spends much of the remaining part of the holiday wearing my mum's clothing - including her tights. He seems a little too comfortable with this situation if I am to be honest.
We arrive on the banks of Te-Ana-au Lake late in the afternoon. Like most of New Zealand, the scenery is magnificent. However, the scenery is not our primary reason for being here. We are here to see glow worms. Or should I say, my mum and I are here to see glow worms. My dad, meanwhile seems resolute in proving that they do not really exist and are just a ploy by the New Zealand tourist board to get people to part with their hard earned cash (We're pretty good at that without an excuse). As we wait for the boat to take us through the glow worm caves, we sit in the cafe/museum, and educate ourselves on these most peculiar of insects. After much evaluation of the photo's and information available to him, dad comes up with his theory, which he feels obliged to share with the rest of the eagerly awaiting customers.
"They're not real you know", he informs everybody. "They spray paint the cavern roof with some kind of phospherant spray", he interjects. He says this with such conviction that the people around start to take note, and half believe the pessimistic dribble that he spouts. The kids faces drop, as if they have just found out that Santa Claus is really their dad. They turn to their parents, for confirmation of any truth in my dad's theory. The parents scowl at my dad and try to convince their kids that is indeed not the case. They have just forked out a small fortune to take their kids through one of natures magical kingdoms and some lunatic is adamant on disproving that the phenomenon even exists. When my dad returns to our table, he attempts to sit on an invisible chair (which a disgruntled parent is currently sitting on)and he consequently crashes to the floor. This is met by more than a few chortles around the room (he is to have a sore arse for the rest of the holiday).
Eventually, the boat, which is going to propel us through the cavern, arrives. We are assigned a guide, who helps us with our life jackets and gives us a run down on the do's and don’ts of our trip.
There is an air of authority to the guide's voice as he delivers his speech. Most people listen intently and nod their heads in agreement, at what he has to say. My dad however, was never the type to abide by the rules, especially when he has got it into his head that the glow worms don't even exist. He turns to me and my mum, and tells us that this is nonsense, "They're only saying it to cover their tracks", he rather loudly informs us. Once again, The Mitton's become the focus of everybody else's agitation
Here are the rules.
Rule 1. Please do not touch formations. Stalactites and stalagmites take a long time to form. They are easily discoloured by people touching them and the more fragile formations can break. Please help us protect the beauty of the cave.
Rule 2.. To protect the cave atmosphere and for the enjoyment and consideration of others, we ask that you do not smoke in the cave.
All photography is strictly forbidden. This includes non-flash photography and video.
Rule 3.. Keep quiet at all times, especially in the boat and on the jetties.
The 4th and final rule is relayed to us in such a serious manner, that only a fool would not obey it.
Rule 4. Under no circumstances must anybody attempt to touch the glow worms.
With our life jackets on and these rules firmly established, we head off into to the darkness, our guide pulling us, by aid of an overhead rope. Inside the cavern, it is pitch black and I mean pitch black. I place my hand in front of what I believe to be my face - I see nothing. In combination with the silence and cold, this leads to quite an eerie trip through the cavern, until we reach the magical kingdom of the glow worm caves.
If you didn't know better, you may think that you are in an observatory or a planetarium, looking out at a galaxy of twinkling stars. A feast of celestial activity, metres above our heads. Indeed, this is what the Maori's first thought when they discovered the caves. I can feel the gasps of pleasure and wonderment as the others on the boat take in this fantastic spectacle. For the next few minutes, our boat silently cuts its way through the water, as we all admire one of nature's treats. Everybody, that is except my dad, who it transpires has been hatching a plan.
Suddenly, I become aware of one particular glow worm which has broken away from the cluster. In my head, it's a breakaway planet, floating in space. It's incandescent glow, drawing me in, entrancing me, like I have never been entranced before. However, with 5 seconds, I am to be rudely snapped out of my hypnosis, as the vessel that protects us from the icy cavern waters, shudders violently, first to the left and then to the right. In a split second, the tranquility of the cave is shattered by the extended vocal chords of the tour guide as he booms the following sentence,
"You stupid man, I told you not to touch the glow worms"
Of course, my mum and I, and all the boat, as it turns out - know straight away who is responsible for this sudden interlude in proceedings. With a mixture of fear and embarrassment I slowly turn my head to the left, where my father is sitting.
The sheer darkness of the cave is penetrated by an enormous beam of light, at the end of which my father's ridiculous grinning face is illuminated. The torch beam, swiftly moves to the left, to reveal my dad's hand with a clearly defined glow worm balanced on the end of his finger. The whole scene is not too dissimilar from E.T, when he tries to phone home. Once again, the silence of the cavern is broken by the tutting of a boatful of disgruntled customers.
My dad responds with the only defence that he has left in his arsenal of stubbornness.
"I told you that they are not real", he whispers, with the conviction of a battered housewife.
Our pleasure trip terminated early, our party head back for the jetty. The serenity of the cave, is now punctuated by customer's complaints, my dad's whispering denials and me and my mum's frenetic giggles.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Battle of the jesters
Dangerous Dave's equally dangerous friend, Steve Carter is giving a party at his far from humble abode, located in a village on the outskirts of Cardiff. This guy is pretentious with a capital P. He's the worst type of rich person, one that came from humble beginnings and feels like he has something to prove. One of Thatcher's children educated at the new breed of dumbed down university, which afforded the peasantry the opportunity to go out and make something of their life's. Steve is the type of guy that nobody actually likes but many people follow him around in the knowledge that he will share his mounds of cocaine and bottles of champagne with them if they tell him what he wants to hear.
It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in July 2006 and my mate Toddy and I are driving down to Steve's party, with thoughts of free cocaine and champagne firmly etched on our minds. The party has a medieval theme with a strict fancy dress code. I have decided to wear a jester outfit which I actually have already lying in the wardrobe, awaiting such an occasion.
Toddy and I are chatting away and 4 hours have passed before we know it. As we drive through the outlying quaint little Welsh villages we crack open a beer to try and get ourselves in the mood. We eventually find "Castle Carter" and park up outside the gates. Dangerous Dave, who is living with Steve at the time, comes out to greet us and we chat to him whilst we don our outfits in the car. We then enter the back garden via a side entrance between the house and the granny flat.
The party has been going on all afternoon and consequently the huge back garden is alive with very drunken, very rowdy medieval characters. At the far end of the garden on the grass there is a huge inflatable castle with 2 fighting podiums in the middle of it. On the patio, there is a pig rotating on a spit, a table bearing lots of food and a huge, velvet seated, gold painted throne. Steve is dressed in a kings outfit complete with a crown and is sitting on the throne overseeing his kingdom and serfdom. As I stand for a quiet moment trying to take all this in, I hear a noise behind me and feel a hand slap down on my shoulder. I quickly spin around to be confronted by another jester. Unlike me, this jester has been drinking all day and judging by his loud and obnoxious behaviour he has some other issues going on. This guy is literally frothing from the mouth, falling around and speaking in such an inarticulate manner that it is impossible to know what he is saying. My concentrated efforts to read his lips are broken by the ringing of a bell to my left. The ringer of the bell is a guy dressed in a town crier outfit, who has been ordered by King Steve to make the public announcements all day. His announcement goes as follows, "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for today's main event THE B-A-T-T-L-E of the J-E-S-T-E-R's". At this news, the crowd erupt into a frenzy of cheering, the alcohol crazed jester punches the air and my arse drops to my feet.
Two minutes later I am on the podium, feeling stone cold sober and holding a large fighting baton in my hands. All I want to do is get this out of the way so that I can enjoy a few beers and some food. The town crier announces that on the count of three, he will ring his bell and the fight will commence. Three, two, one "rinnnggggg riinnnnggg", and we're off. I immediately batter the other jester with one hard clobbering thrust of the baton. His drunken state does not lend itself to such a hit and he falls straight off the podium. Unfortunately for me he falls forwards, lunging at me as he falls to the deck. I too am knocked from my podium and hit the inflatable castle with such force that I bounce up, somersault in the air, land on top of the castle wall and am consequently bounced with force, first 3 ft in the air and then 6ft to the ground. I land flat on my back, with a sickening crunch of my head on the hard floor. Once more the crowd erupt.
I know that I have hurt myself but pride kicks in and I am on my feet before I know it. I walk back towards the crowd with my head held high but avoiding their gaze. I'm heading straight for the buffet, when I detect from the sound of the crowd that they are not satisfied with this performance. They are chanting "jesters, jesters" as they demand a rematch. Rather foolishly I give in to their demands and take my place on the podium.
The town crier counts down, the bell rings and again I smash the jester with a blow which knocks him straight off his podium. What happens next is unbelievable! The jester falls forward, lunges at me and knocks me off my podium, I hit the bouncy surface, bounce in the air, hitting the top of the castle, propelling my 3 feet in the air before I crash down on the grass below, landing flat on my back. This sound familiar? It's a carbon copy of what has just happened not 5 minutes earlier. My head even hits the ground with the same intensity. Once more the crowd erupt.
This time I am down for slightly longer but my pride resurrects me. I walk towards them, head held high and arms triumphantly in the air. They cry out for more but I snub their demands and stride past them to get myself a well earned beer. I fear that I am slightly concussed and my ribs are in absolute agony. For the next half and hour I put up a show that all is good before retiring to a dark and quiet room upstairs, like a dog that is preparing to die.
It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in July 2006 and my mate Toddy and I are driving down to Steve's party, with thoughts of free cocaine and champagne firmly etched on our minds. The party has a medieval theme with a strict fancy dress code. I have decided to wear a jester outfit which I actually have already lying in the wardrobe, awaiting such an occasion.
Toddy and I are chatting away and 4 hours have passed before we know it. As we drive through the outlying quaint little Welsh villages we crack open a beer to try and get ourselves in the mood. We eventually find "Castle Carter" and park up outside the gates. Dangerous Dave, who is living with Steve at the time, comes out to greet us and we chat to him whilst we don our outfits in the car. We then enter the back garden via a side entrance between the house and the granny flat.
The party has been going on all afternoon and consequently the huge back garden is alive with very drunken, very rowdy medieval characters. At the far end of the garden on the grass there is a huge inflatable castle with 2 fighting podiums in the middle of it. On the patio, there is a pig rotating on a spit, a table bearing lots of food and a huge, velvet seated, gold painted throne. Steve is dressed in a kings outfit complete with a crown and is sitting on the throne overseeing his kingdom and serfdom. As I stand for a quiet moment trying to take all this in, I hear a noise behind me and feel a hand slap down on my shoulder. I quickly spin around to be confronted by another jester. Unlike me, this jester has been drinking all day and judging by his loud and obnoxious behaviour he has some other issues going on. This guy is literally frothing from the mouth, falling around and speaking in such an inarticulate manner that it is impossible to know what he is saying. My concentrated efforts to read his lips are broken by the ringing of a bell to my left. The ringer of the bell is a guy dressed in a town crier outfit, who has been ordered by King Steve to make the public announcements all day. His announcement goes as follows, "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for today's main event THE B-A-T-T-L-E of the J-E-S-T-E-R's". At this news, the crowd erupt into a frenzy of cheering, the alcohol crazed jester punches the air and my arse drops to my feet.
Two minutes later I am on the podium, feeling stone cold sober and holding a large fighting baton in my hands. All I want to do is get this out of the way so that I can enjoy a few beers and some food. The town crier announces that on the count of three, he will ring his bell and the fight will commence. Three, two, one "rinnnggggg riinnnnggg", and we're off. I immediately batter the other jester with one hard clobbering thrust of the baton. His drunken state does not lend itself to such a hit and he falls straight off the podium. Unfortunately for me he falls forwards, lunging at me as he falls to the deck. I too am knocked from my podium and hit the inflatable castle with such force that I bounce up, somersault in the air, land on top of the castle wall and am consequently bounced with force, first 3 ft in the air and then 6ft to the ground. I land flat on my back, with a sickening crunch of my head on the hard floor. Once more the crowd erupt.
I know that I have hurt myself but pride kicks in and I am on my feet before I know it. I walk back towards the crowd with my head held high but avoiding their gaze. I'm heading straight for the buffet, when I detect from the sound of the crowd that they are not satisfied with this performance. They are chanting "jesters, jesters" as they demand a rematch. Rather foolishly I give in to their demands and take my place on the podium.
The town crier counts down, the bell rings and again I smash the jester with a blow which knocks him straight off his podium. What happens next is unbelievable! The jester falls forward, lunges at me and knocks me off my podium, I hit the bouncy surface, bounce in the air, hitting the top of the castle, propelling my 3 feet in the air before I crash down on the grass below, landing flat on my back. This sound familiar? It's a carbon copy of what has just happened not 5 minutes earlier. My head even hits the ground with the same intensity. Once more the crowd erupt.
This time I am down for slightly longer but my pride resurrects me. I walk towards them, head held high and arms triumphantly in the air. They cry out for more but I snub their demands and stride past them to get myself a well earned beer. I fear that I am slightly concussed and my ribs are in absolute agony. For the next half and hour I put up a show that all is good before retiring to a dark and quiet room upstairs, like a dog that is preparing to die.
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