Alan Coleman

I’ve always had a particular interest in post war communism, and as a child I couldn’t get enough news footage from Red Square, the Politburo and the Berlin Wall. The Soviet Union seemed to have something that I found fascinating, not communism because that was too obvious and oppressive. It was probably the fact that it was so vast, had its own space program, cool posters and backward letters. Also it seemed so much more dignified than its idiot American or British counterparts in Reagan or Thatcher, the latter of which I am still waiting to die.

Also, we couldn’t go there, the forbidden fruit, so to speak. The Moscow satellite states also had a strange lure, and in particular East Germany which seemed even more remote and cut off, even though it was in Europe and we looked over the fence once on a school exchange visit (I snogged Terri Diss, which is slightly strange because she had an 80s Slavic look about her). Most of all it was stories about the Berlin Wall that trapped the imagination, the place that more than any other epitomised cold war paranoia in the 70s and 80s. A divided city, like Belfast was at the time, but with a grown up agenda, and far more at stake.

I’d always wanted to go there, probably more than any other European city. Rome, Barcelona, Paris and Madrid are all places to aspire to, but for me not quite for the same reasons. It’s true to say that those other European cities have seen their fair share of the action in the form of revolution, civil war and air raids. But it was Berlin that sat for forty years, split in two by fearful politics and hopeless ideology from which it still bares the scares. A city rising from the past, slowly coming to terms with the history for which it has become synonymous.

No better place for a stag weekend then? The idea being that the annual beer festival would provide a focus for which to base a few days in the city. Overwhelming amounts of fine lager, barbequed animals and techno awaited. That and poncing about in cafes talking about motorbikes and bullshit sexual conquests.

I can’t put my finger on what I liked about the place most, but I was almost overwhelmed by the sheer civility of the culture and atmosphere. By civility I mean that everything works, is well organized and presented like it matters. Not in the authoritarian way you’d expect in Germany, but in an unregulated manner conclusive to good living. In that sense it is a city completely at ease with its own contradiction.

There are bars everywhere open all hours of the night, they serve good drinks at reasonable prices and the service is impeccable. There is a general good feeling of tolerance about the place, you can smoke, and there’s bog roll in the toilet. The two Techno clubs we went to on Friday and Saturday night respectively draw on the contradicting theme running through the city. The concrete brutalism of the décor, and the abandoned factory locations sit beautifully against the well fitted hard rubber bars and friendly staff. It is insanely modern, almost uncomfortably cool and the music is overtly aggressive, and as if to top the contradiction, it is almost entirely self regulating. Surely this is what it’s all about.

No sign of foul tasting lager, trains littered with filth or hordes of police in oversized Scotchlite pushing you out into the street at bedtime. No, none of that bollocks, and unsurprisingly there was no trouble apart from that threatened by overweight northerners in ‘Man Yoo’ shirts. Looking around the fantastic beer festival at the tens of thousands getting blind drunk in good spirits, I couldn’t help but see us as an increasingly alienated nation, and as time goes on a less physically attractive one too.

And the irony of it all is that nearly 20 years after the end of communism in Berlin, it is the city of London that is turning into a dirty and polarized Police state, with daily violence and hate egged on by a paranoid media.

We have a lot to learn.

A few weekends ago myself and Mand spent a day in a place that I’ve returned to many times since I was a child, the Suffolk coastal town of Aldeburgh. Apart from the phoney art galleries that have shamelessly replaced the bucket and spade shops, it’s changed very little over the years. It still has the same sleepy pace, the seaside smells of old varnish and a somewhat direct connection to childhood.

For me Aldeburgh has always had a strange feel and it’s something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t know whether it’s the remote nature of the place, the strange 1950s look or the statue of the small dog, it’s just a little bit weird. Maybe it’s the beach that we spent days charging around on when we were little, the huge expanse of stones that disappears northwards and somehow draws you away to a forgotten place. The old wooden fishing boats and peeling paint, hung over from a time before the screens turned working men into morons. Turn southwards towards the town and the waves create a mist through which the lonely beach fishermen can just be seen.

The sea is a break from the relentless aggression of modern living, it won’t judge you or try to screw you for a token profit, and its mere size is enough to command a bizarre respect. Hence the reason that we’re happy just to sit there and look at it.

Sometimes it makes me feel more than a little nervous, although strangely safe at the same time. However with the sound of the seagulls and waves, there can surely be no more peaceful place to spend a spring or autumn afternoon, add chips and a can of Lilt to achieve the ultimate in smug.

Okay so it’s become a bit of a haunt for the Volvo brigade and their packs of Labradors, but underneath the Sunday supplement veneer it’s still essentially the same place. Stones that stretch for miles, huge skies, brown water and shipping.

This is one of the best beaches I’ve ever been to.

It’s not often that I really feel that I’ve managed to get away from things, and by that I mean forgetting about work, debt, Ashley Cole and all those other tedious inconveniences that blight my life on a daily basis. In the past decade for example, I can count on my hand the occasions when my mind has been completely free from all the turmoil that accompanies the insanity that is modern living.

Last weeks trip to the Dordogne provided for one of those occasions of respite from my oily psychosis, it also gives Mandy an opportunity not to spend too much time with me on my own, which can only be a bonus for her.

Before I start on the Dordogne I’m going to pre-empt Fatty’s text message about it all being a little bit middle class and me having ideas above my station. Okay so it’s overwhelmingly farmers market, crusty bread and Radio 4. But not everything in life is that black and white, and there can be room for manoeuvre. For instance, skiing is a prime example of how poor people can plunge even further into debt whilst trying to keep up with Rupert and the chums.

I’ve just read that back. What a load of bollocks.

What strikes me about this area of France is the sheer abundance of wildlife on display. There’s a multitude of fish, insect and bird life to be seen at close quarters almost everywhere. It’s probably no different to similar areas anywhere in the world, but because of the intimacy afforded by a canoe it all seem so much more intense.

There was fairly sizable Barbell to be seen below the surface in the faster flowing sections, whilst in the deeper parts I saw Perch, my favourite river predator, chasing smaller fish to an agonizing death.

Most banks had a pair of Kingfishers flying at breakneck speed through the undergrowth, not really visible but for a blue flash, and only on one occasion did I see one static long enough to see the red plumage on the front. Although they did appear smaller than the ones I’ve seen in the West Country over here.

For me though, the most memorable wildlife was the insects and in particular, Dragonflies. They seemed to sum up the whole feeling of lazy afternoons drifting along with the sun beaming through the trees and into the water like a halo around the head. If I where an insect then I reckon I’d be a Dragonfly, Mand would be a Grasshopper, Becky would be Praying Mantis and Roger would be a Dung Beetle. Whilst Ben and Chris would probably be Blue Bottles, the kind that swarm around a sun baked dog turd.

Talking of which, the two of them tried unsuccessfully on a couple of occasions to kill themselves. Nobody is more surprised than them at their escape from serious injury as a result of drink and testosterone fuelled bravado. Oh how they didn’t need a second waterproof barrel, oh how they didn’t need to respect the potential dangers of a fast flowing river and oh, how the women should be careful.

The result could have turned quite nasty, very quickly. On one occasion I turn round and have Michael Burke in my ear narrating proceedings on one of those 999 Life Savers programs.

“An then, in a an astonishing turn of events, one of the party, by now heavily intoxicated, actually stands up and attempts to urinate into the river from a fast moving canoe. Inevitably they are both thrown into the deep river and are dragged under by the current whilst their canoe careers into rocks sending their possessions floating downstream”.

Oh how we didn’t need lifejackets.

Happy days.

Now that I’ve been relegated to the passenger seat on a full time basis I can gaze out of the window to my hearts content and drift off without crashing. This comes from my mum’s side of the family. On those long car journeys to Scotland as kids she would stare in fascination at the industrial landscapes of the midlands, whilst falling asleep anywhere north of Carlisle.

So, Chelmsford for the first time since we left college. I almost felt like travelling back in time to a long lost era that only existed in those dodgy post war town planning films. You know, Flowers on the roundabouts for this years Britain in Bloom competition, the joys of concrete brutalism and all that?

Anyway, I was quite impressed with the place. No flytipping on verges, fridges and mattresses on street corners or any of that other collective filth that is a place like London. One thing though, I can admit to feeling a little disappointed at not seeing a shirtless man on a green council mower (John Deere), for me that would have completed the suburban dream.

We turned up at Mandy’s friends flat to a hive of activity including sandwich making, packing waterproofs into bags and endless conversations about sneaking booze past security. It was at this point that it dawned on me that I was going to a festival with three women. Which as I suspected it might, turned out to be a great day.

Obviously preparation is the key to the female festival experience. For instance, Just when the munchies start to set in, tin foil parcels appear full of tasty munch. None of this queuing up with students to spend six quid on a plate of soggy noodles, oh no. It’s cold pizza, ham rolls and Tracker bars, all washed down Vodka that has been cunningly mixed with Fanta to avoid detection. If the famous five went to festivals, it would be like this.

And what of the V festival itself? I’ve always found it quite accommodating and accessible, it’s easy to get to and is set in a beautiful park full of enormous oak trees. The natural lay of the land creates slopes so that everyone can see, which also sorts the drainage out. Okay, so the commercialism rampages out of control, and its not going to fare very well in the super cool G2 section. But if you want to avoid the commercial trappings of a market economy go and live in a tepee with Ray Mears and drink beetle urine.

Great to see so may local people there too, as music festivals tend to be fairly white middle class affairs (None more so than Glastonbury) it’s nice to mix with the less obvious festival type, and who better than Essex man

Which brings me to the highlight of the day. Which had to be the people at the festival, reinforcing my belief that Essex produces the most down to earth, best looking and funniest people in the south. Men and boys, well groomed in cashmere tops and spanking new white Lacoste trainers. Girls and women, straight blonde hair, fake tan and this years patterned wellies. Great.

Wicked day out.

PS. Kasabian weren’t bad either!

Driving past billboard adverts for Pacha and Space was as close as we got to clubbing in Ibiza last week. Not that it’s beneath us or anything like that, far from it, the fact is that we wouldn’t have been up to it even if we wanted too. The Island of Ibiza is world famous for that whole scene and I don’t think it’s for the feint hearted. In other words, Mandy would have been okay but it’s not for Muppets like me.

So instead we took it easy for a week, hired a car and explored the various parts of what is essentially a beautiful Island. The heat put us off visiting the two main towns of San Antonio and Ibiza town, instead we opted for discovering beaches and the many little coves dotted around the coast. There is wildlife everywhere, that, clear blue seas, rugged coastlines and white beaches. I’d heard all this on a couple of occasions last year but of course it didn’t hit me until we arrived.

The quieter beaches weren’t far away from our resort of Es Cana, and in fact the beach there was as good as any and proved to be the best place for families to watch the World Cup with sand between the toes. And to think that I was worried about not seeing the matches before we went.

Going away like we did is something I’d definitely do again during a football competition, the location definitely took the edge of England’s lacklustre performances and in a way made me feel like a part of the travelling contingent. Watching the games where families from all over the country, kids in Rooney shirts, parents in Terry’s and grandmas in sequined England bikinis. All, like myself, equipped with the highest punditry qualifications courtesy of countless international competitions. Nothing finer after a match than to sit back with jugs of Sangria and discuss the minute details of the 4-5-1, knowing full well that whoever you’re talking to will never realise that you are in fact, full of shit.

It was in quite a smart beach bar during these matches that we got to know Andrew and Susan, a down to earth and self made couple from Halifax who had their own place in Es Cana. Their company, insight and humour turned out to be one of the highlights of our week, with evenings spent discussing anything from Surprise Surprise to the war in Iraq. It’s always great to meet people indifferent to the trivial concerns of daily living, and who instead focus on the wider and more important picture of how life should be.

I’ve found myself inspired to look at my life in a more positive manner since meeting them and discovering Ibiza. Cheers guys!