Prague One Week On...

So here I am. First week over and finally found a place to live. It was a desperate week to say the least.I must have viewed around 7 to 8 flats - all varying in people and levels of craziness. I think if I could give any advice to expats it would be to NOT go through an agency when looking for a place. The school recommended one company and I of course took the bait. When I arrived in Prague expecting viewings to be lined up they told me that they had nothing and 'will keep trying'. Here are the two flats they ended up showing me:

Flat 1: Old crusty 'documentary' maker/hipster lady looking to rent out spare room in fancy part of town. Room comes with ten years of dust and grime and some rather manky wooden windows. 'Kitchen' (used loosely here) consists of ONE cooking hob only. Would like to rent to tenant for unspecified cost at an unspecified duration with utility bills TBC. Tenant must make themselves scarce and bow down in fear if hipster lady returns from travels and needs to use the flat.

Flat 2: Geriatric American father and son type looking for expat to patronize and share in filth wallowing in 'cozy' abode. Facilities include access to micro kitchen covered in unspecified slime, a variety of splendid cannabis bongs for your perusal and a gentle waft of eau de mildew in the rather unambiguous sleeping quarters.

I ended up arranging all other viewings and luckily on my very last house hunting day I got a nice super clean flat in Prague 3 next to Flora station.

In just a week I've seen so much of this place and its people. The Czech people are famed for their general unfriendliness so I wasn't too surprised when anyone in customer service eyed me like the British swamp toad that I am. They are also a big fan of rules. God help you if you don't abide to their correct instructions!! I don't get why they are so miserable, they live in the most beautiful city!!

The metro is very easy to master and there are so many trams around you can get around really easily. There has been a few times I've gone the wrong way on public transport, but jumping off at random stops is sometimes the best way to discover new areas (plus its easy to get back on track!)

My flat is very very close to the Flora metro which is really handy, although the immediate neighbourhood is rather built up and ugly. To my surprise there is a number of massive graveyards just over the road next to the Flora shopping mall. They are very beautiful, but as gothic as it gets.

It sounds a bit silly but I think the most difficult part of this move is not necessarily being in another country - it is living in a shared flat again. The flatmates seem really nice but I have been on my own for so long it is hard to have a shared space again.

I've been talking to some expats and arranged to meet up with them so that it positive! It might take a while for me to settle here.

First day in Prague

First post from Prague - right now everything feels surreal and odd, it might be something to do with the little sleep I had! Went to bed at 10pm last night, didn't sleep of course and got up at quarter to three. I doubt I will ever get used to early morning flights.

Flight was smooth, I got to my air bnb via taxi thanks to my printed address papers. I had a nightmare situation yesterday - the apartment I booked weeks ago was suddenly cancelled! I was so freaked out that I didn't have much time to get my head round moving and such. It seemed a real shame as this flat was in Prague 2, very close to the house agency and the part of town I fancied living in. Turns out I was pleasantly surprised by the flat booked in its place!

I'm in Prague 8, a bit far from the city centre but it has very good bus and train links. The owner, Bianca is a very eccentric but thoughtful and helpful host. She made sure to write down all the information I need and even got me a short journey ticket to town! The flat is actually lovely! very spacious, proper cooking area and a separate shower and toilet (Bianca added that your 'lover' doesn't need to be that close to your personal habits!) It's surprisingly leafy and quiet here. I hope to use the rooftop terrace at some point, maybe drink some wine :)

After dropping my bags off I set off to the city centre. Super easy and quick to get to. I have however noticed that English is not used as often as I presumed. Most people I met have an extremely basic knowledge of the language with the exception of a very nice African guy who restored my faith in humanity today (long story short, Czech police and ticket operators are arseholes but we all know that!) Even the tourist place names do not give the translation so I had to squint at the little pictures and hope the signs led me somewhere interesting. In short, I'm terribly spoiled and not used to actually having to deal with a foreign language.

I had a good wander round the city centre and snapped a few photos. Every corner has some historical beauty hiding, it was very fascinating! I felt quite relaxed and at ease just wandering the streets and stopping to gawp and take photos when I could. The only downside to this flat is that there is absolutely no corner shops let alone supermarkets nearby so if you need to buy food it all has to be done in town. It won't be too much trouble for this week.

Coming back to the flat after my day in the city I was tired and sweaty and feeling a bit deflated. It's probably a mixture of tiredness, excitement, nervousness and sadness about leaving family behind. After food, shower and skype with parents I am feeling a bit better but I am looking forward to Brian arriving.

Anyway, my battery is low (I forgot to buy some European plug sockets, wah!) so I'll leave this entry for today.

Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture

Everyone’s gone. Not a sausage. Your task is to find out what the hell happened. Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture is a first person ‘adventure’ game created by indie studio, The Chinese Room and involves the discovery of an ‘abandoned’ fictional Shropshire village Yaughton and unravelling the secrets of this idyllic, yet mysterious setting.

 The pace is rather slow and frustrating, especially when you have travelled a long distance and you can’t fast travel back to village centre. The problem is easily remedied if you stop thinking like a manic gamer! This isn’t Call of Duty, folks! Try to soak in the atmosphere, marvel at the dead critters which lace the country paths, revere at the gentle rustling of leaves at the mesmerising sunrise which bathes the valley in a golden glow. The effect, is beautiful, yet very creepy.

The ‘event’ appears to have happened moments before you arrived. Half-drunk pint glasses at the pub, freshly-washed and hung bedsheets rippling in the breeze, cigarettes still smouldering in ash trays. You could almost believe everyone has dashed off to the village fete. There are also more ominous signs of this sudden disappearance of civilisation. Bloodied tissues littering pathways, derailed trains surrounded by debris, even a blood soaked barn with a hammer which seems to be thrown haphazardly on the floor, indicating a sticky end for one poor soul.

 I rather like the chosen decade for the game. The 1980s is a prominent decade in Britain, an age of nostalgia but deep rooted fear and uncertainty on the great political and social-economical stage, but village life continued as it did for hundreds of years. It strongly reminds me growing up in a small village in Essex and returning there as an adult. Nothing much changes in the countryside. The developers also cleverly chose this decade due to the lack of instant communication. One of the main characters has to literally run from one scene to another when the landlines are down! Which leads nicely into the interaction within the game, being there isn’t any. Imagine yourself as the (almost) passive observer, walking at a glacial speed around Tipworth and Yaughton, watching dramas unravel in front of you. The fore-mentioned orbs darting amongst the houses and trees lead you onto storylines which are played out by shimmering, golden figures representing some interesting residents of the village.

 There’s Catherine (Kate) and Stephen, an unhappily married pair of scientists who scurry back from America to Stephen’s childhood home and set up work at the nearby Valis Observatory. For some reason. Then there’s Stephen’s mother Wendy, the bully-ish village busy body and casual racist who can’t stop yapping on about her dead husband and the damn birds. Lizzie Graves, Stephen’s ex-fiancée who he unceremoniously dumped to pursue a career in America, forward-thinking country bumpkin Frank Appleton and Euthanasia-enthusiast and local God Squad disciple, Father Jeremy. There are other characters but they are not that important.

 Saying this, all the storylines, major and minor are riveting. It’s like following a classy soap opera, filled with all the delicious dramas and twists that keep you pacing the paths of this apocalyptic agricultural setting. Arguably the everyday lives of the residents (a cheating spouse, a scorned romance between youths, an alcoholic husband) are more intriguing than the over saturated main theme.

 To unlock main plot lines you have to jiggle the controller a bit in front of a big, static orb to hit the sweet spot. Admittedly this took me a while to figure out and I had moments yelling ‘What do you want?!’ at the fuzzy ball of light pulsing on the screen. However, some balls of light simply want to mess with you. You can spend ten minutes chasing one down the road and it might suddenly do a U-turn and double back on itself. It’s sometimes unclear whether you are supposed to follow them or do your own thing (I ended up unlocking more stories by exploring on my own).

 Despite rather clumsy gameplay, the graphics are astounding. The skies can morph from beautiful morning rays piercing through illuminated clouds on hilltops, hazy summer light filtering through cornfields to familiar English summer rain spattering on abandoned caravans in the campsite. The villages are expansive yet easily navigated, with many country footpaths leading back to main areas and handy ‘You are here’ maps so you can never get lost.

 The soundtrack is absolutely one of my favourite ones if the year. It’s mystical, ominous, dazzling and familiar all at the same time. Composer Jessica Curry has created a masterpiece of choral voices and strings, which blend seamlessly into the environment and evoke emotions you think you couldn’t have about a game.

Although I loved this game, there are some very irritating aspects which I simply must cover to make this review as honest as I can. Spoilers ahoy.

 • Unresolved issues: What happens Terry and June’s (Insert English chortle) dog Harvey when he runs away? Why are those symbols (infinity pattern) painted on some cars and random things? What was that bust-up in the barn about? Why does the sky change from dark to light? Why have all the clocks stopped at 6:08am?

 • The ending. I was expecting a big reveal. No. It’s pretty much the game as you play it. No real exciting climax. A bit dull for the end of the world.

 • Why is the walking pace so slow?? Even the ‘jog’ is slower than my grandma’s gentle saunter

 • Why oh why is there not more saving options?? The game only auto saves after a major plotline occurs, and trust me, it doesn’t happen a lot at first. If the developers wanted us to enjoy the surroundings at a relaxing pace, why couldn’t we save when we like? Hours of my life wasted re-doings bits until I figured out how to use the Rest Mode on my PS4

 • Who are you? No seriously - if everyone is gone and taken by the 'pattern', then who are you playing as first person? God surveying the fallout of his orby-raged rapture?

Here is the news

It's been over a year since my last post, I would say I'm sorry but I'm not, I've been super busy uprooting my life and entering the wonderful world of...local journalism! I've only started to get a full grip on local news abd everything it entails and here is a list of pointers I've leant along the way.

1. Expect the mundane and learn to love it. I'm slightly ashamed to say, but I was very excited when my editor asked me to report on a missing bench. 'Bench stolen? why yes, I'd love to!' and I wasn't being sarcastic. Lets face it, when are you ever going to write in such a quirky way? fill with puns, photograph angry looking residents pointing at said place where bench was nicked...sorted. Most of these 'slow news' stories actually mean something to somebody out there anyway.4

2. Expect to receive a large amount of hostility. Police officers, coroners, solicitors, press officers, court clerks...most of these people hate us with a dying passion because we weasel our way round crime scenes or ask annoying questions. In the good ol' days, so I'm told we had a good relationship with emergency services, we were respected, hell we even were invited to police Christmas parties and got wasted with a load of pc plods. Not the case these days, everyone is so worried about being sued or get caught saying the wrong thing it's bloody hard to wriggle information out of anyone with tying them down and dripping lemon juice in their eyes.

3. Be prepared for anything. Sounds obvious, but the best part of the job is coming in on a Monday and having no idea where the day will take you. Fires, road accidents, smash and grab robberies, it's always exciting to be one of the first people on the scene and get caught up in the drama of it all.

4. Politics is like a playground full of cartoon characters. Sometimes you sit in a council meeting bored out of your wits, and other times you expect some portly Lib Dem to smash a giant mallet on top of a Conservative's wrinkly withered forehead. From parking spaces to bin collections, expect an argument out of everything.

5. Try to keep an arm's length when dealing with death. The death knock, as many a reporter will know is when you have to turn up at the dead person's home address and try to wrangle an interview out of the familly. I've never had the chance to doa proper interview, but visiting a flat where a drug addict died, visiting the death scene or simply being in an inquest can be hard hitting. Don't take your work home with you, and as unkind as it may sound, for some reporters cracking a few jokes is the best way to deal with death.

6. Love your patch. Patch, being the term for your reporting town or city should be your number once concern. Get to know the people, become involved in campaigns. With the help of papers you can spread the message so much easier. The local news affects us much more than the nationals and it still baffles me that people are happy to ignore youth centres being pulled down in their area but are concerned that some celebrity gimpoid has poisoned themselves with a lethal cocktail of drugs and alcohol and lie dead in a hotel room. Get some perspective people.

Meet the Natives

A lot of tv documentaries pretend to be insightful, retrospective shows designed to enlighten us on human existence but actually turn out to be gawp-fests a few elephants short of a freak show. However, Channel Four have come up with some reality programmes which undermine our desire to poke and prod the freak under the microscope. This time, the finger is turned on us.

Meet the Natives was aired a while ago, but thanks to 4od I was able to watch the whole series in one big hit. The four part documentary begins in Tanna, an island in the South Pacific and we are introduced to five members of the community who adopt the role as ‘ambassadors’ on a journey in and around England. Although the Channel Four film crew are clearly present taking backdrop shots and capturing the odd native dance in a village hall, the ambassadors are given their own hand held cameras, allowing them to observe and narrate the entire documentary themselves, which leads to interesting results.

In episode one, the men enjoy a short stay at a pig farm in Norfolk. This description makes it sound like a hovel of mud, but surprisingly the ambassadors find themselves in a rather luxurious farm house littered with scatter cushions, mood lighting and numerous bedrooms. The men are told that this is the ‘middle class’ way of living. Yes, middle class in that sort of cuddly 1950s ‘oh goodness, we are in the splendid countryside!’ kind of way. I’ve known plenty of farmers and they sure as hell don’t ramble in water logged fields by day and rest their feet on velvet cushions under glowing chandeliers by night.

Of all the families that the men stay at, the pig farm proves to be the most socially awkward. One of my highlights was upon the arrival at the house, the Tannese glance about and comment on the number of ornaments and decor. ‘This house is filled with crap,’ they say, or at least they would say if their language wasn’t so beautifully poetic. And quite rightly too. It made me observe my own bedroom, a lair of unwanted gifts, ornaments and trinkets that just fill up the place with a sense of disgust.

The ambassadors warm up to the man of the house, mister pig farmer himself and the groundskeeper for his traditional, bunny bludgeoning ways, although the farmer’s wife is a different story. At the initial dinner, the chief gives a heartfelt speech of how thankful the men are for being so well looked after, and his belief that the white and black people shall merge like ‘ink on white paper’. An awkward silence prevails, and is broken by the wife asking in her plummy accent whether anyone would like a drink. In fact, she pretty much interrupts all the pivotal moments by questioning a need for beverages, but it’s a behaviourism all us British are guilty of. When times get tough and we feel uncomfortable or unable to deal with intimate conversation, we inquire about tea.


Next on the agenda for the Tannese was a trip to Birmingham to live with a working class bi-racial family on a jolly looking estate. The men are thrilled to be staying in all the same room which resembles sleeping habits back in Tanna, and the family greet them with ease in their humble surroundings. There’s a lovely moment when the husband, a taxi driver is showing the men how to clean his mini cab using a jet spray, but manages to cover himself with blobs of foam. The men burst into infectious laughter with the Brummie, slapping thighs and holding their sides in pure ecstasy. You forget that these are islanders from the other side of the world who have never set foot in the Western world before, just a bunch of blokes sharing a joke. In fact, there isn’t a moment where the men are not smiling, laughing or enjoying the little quirks and oddities of British life. They describe themselves as ‘the happiest people in the world’, and it’s probably true.

The ambassadors are treated to KFC, after meal ciggies (apparently in Birmingham they are shared about like After Eight mints) and a trip into the city centre. They are shocked at the great number of homeless people shacking up in cardboard boxes or selling the Big Issue. When they question this, the husband merely states that although we are a rich country, some people are still very very poor and can’t afford to live in houses. It seems the family and the crew seem cautious not to tell the islanders the real reasons of homelessness: drug addiction, broken homes, domestic abuse. It’s all glossed over, perhaps in a bid to prevent over exertion on the Tannese’s part. Regardless, the men presume that our society has no interest in the welfare of its poor, and it is a sight which they never forget and tell to their people back at home, the shortcomings of the English.

On their final journey they head to Northumberland to stay with Sir Something-or-rather in Chillingham Castle. Because, you know those crazy aristocrats! They all live in dirty great castles in the middle of nowhere with only their vintage musket collection for company. The islanders follow Sir Bobby-Pin or whatever his name was around the stone mansion in horrified silence. Mounted animal heads, weapons and torture devices adorn the walls like a personal homage to Marquis Du Sade.

Sir Snuffle-Nose teaches the ambassadors the all important rules of fine dining and etiquette, and they stare in bafflement as they are instructed to use the stabby and pokey eating tools ‘from the outside in.’ These displays are indeed ludicrous, but the men listen and respect the rules because they are long standing tradition, something the Tannese deeply honour within their culture. Later they witness fox hunting, or should that be in sarcastic inverted quotes ‘fox hunting’ which involves chasing a quad bike instead of small ginger animal. The islanders are curious to know why this tradition in carried on in such an odd manner, a waste of time to some.

Before their departure, the ambassadors perform the native dance as they showed the previous communities they visited, except this time it’s part of an upper class black tie dinner. You think to yourself, oh, this is going to be awkward, if the middle-classers stood around nervously chewing their mouths, the poshos will be much worse. Rather refreshingly, the chanting commenced and the aristocrats were up and dancing along to the beat, and enjoying it too. Their host gave a heartfelt speech this time. No patronising, no humouring the islanders; but a sincere thanking of the people who travelled so far to come and dance in their stone halls.

After a special visit in England, the ambassadors return home greeted by a wave of grass skirts, singing and dancing. As inventive and insightful as the documentary had been, I couldn’t help thinking Tanna was represented like a colour book of what native people should be like. Happy, plump brown skinned people in straw houses and beautiful tropical landscapes. The Tannese are never homeless, they care for each other, look after their animals and there is never any crime. Perhaps the Tannese choose to skim over the unfavourable details, maybe they see their world without flaws. Perhaps they really are the happiest people in the world.

The crowded island

There's just too many men, too many people making too many problems and everyone hates each other. I may be paraphrasing Genesis's anti-Thatcherite song 'Land of Confusion', but I find no other way to say, there is just too many fecking people on this island.

I live just outside of a former industrial town in essex which remained generally unoticied for decades until the London overspill, an airport and a snobby outlet village lured in the masses. Anytime of the day the roads are congested, and I, the eternal pedestrian avoid near death on a daily basis by dodging the frustrated drivers. Is it just me or is everyone behind the wheel betting on who can run over my legs in the shortest time? Since when is it ok for drivers to hurtle down a road then suddenly blast their horn at a unsuspecting pedestrian who was crossing at a clearing?

We are told humans are social beings, we crave social surroundings, we must exist around other existence otherwise what's the point of existing? Am I some social outcast because I like to have space and quiet by myself? Whoever says they enjoy the elbow jamming and obnoxious shoving in nightclubs is either a liar or an idiot. A young Amish girl commented on the crowds of London in a recent Channel Four documentary, "I notice that one out of three (communters)have headsets on, isolating themselves. It's kind of amazing how you can be in such a big crowd and be totally isolated."

I can't even walk into town without being bundled by a herd of old grannies. As painfully inhumane to even mention, old people just don't die anymore. They are on calorie controlled and heart disease busting diets, pepped up with supplements for every dodgey bone and ligament, and although they are hobbling about like extras from Dawn of the Dead and quality of life has rapidly decreased, hey, at least they are alive! I'm not suggesting that everyone go to the old folks home and smother great aunt Doris, just be aware of who is really clogging up the earth. And causing all that extra methane in the atmosphere. Its not the cows.

But the real cause of overpopulation is startingly obvious: reproduction at an excessive level. For some reason these days just having one of something isn't enough. People have to have more than one car, people are not satisfied with owning just one fat smelly labrador, they have to collect at least three, like gargantuan Pound Puppies, and people have to have more than one child to make a family.

Urgh, I see babies and children everywhere I go, all dribbling and gawping, and peppering every toilet, shop and street with sweet wrappers. For someone who has a general bewilderment and/or fear towards these small creatures, I seem to have landed myself a temporary job that demands constant involvement with children and their tiny acrid feet. Millions of them plunder into the shop. Flustered parents block walkways with giant buggys, causing kids and shop assistant alike to perform a rather clumsy dance along the floor. Children run around the shop picking up shoes and helpfully dropping them elsewhere. I get whacked on the head by a set of keys given to a baby while he or she is repeatedly kicking in my general direction whilst I strap a foot down. Its like trying to measure a very angry, very alive eel. The end of the day the assistants are lying unconscious on the ground blanketed in shoes and sweet wrappers.

The trouble is, there are just too many children in the world, or indeed in the UK. Britain's sides are bulging with the whining devils, they render every simple joy renderless. I can't go to a toy museum or see a Disney movie at the cinema without the sheer irritation of a child's incessant cry. Perhaps I'm going to the wrong places.

I think for Britain we must invest in an idea brought forward by Karl Pilkington, the 'round-headed bufoon' of The Ricky Gervais Podcast. He notes that the overpopulation dilemma could be solved if everyone could go through single procreation i.e we all live until 78 and when we die we subsquentally give birth to a baby, and the cycle continues in a strict, unmessy fashion without fear of using up all our resources and damaging the earth in one big hit. Brilliant idea, and I hope scientists make an advance on this. For me, its either reincarnated pod people, or moving to Canada.

The Tennanite age of irritation

I've been on a Doctor Who marathon, possibly the greatest time waster to repeatedly watch episode after episode, box set after boxset, but this now means I've somewhat an expert of the revamped series, in particular the Tennant age. However fantastic and lovable Tennant is, and even though he was become some sort of national treasure thanks to Doctor Who, there are some rather annoying aspects to series two to four.

Doctor smart-arsery

As noted by TV critic Charlie Brooker, Tennant's doctor is a bit of a smug know-it-all, and so he should be too seeing as he is a timelord and all. But his infuriating constant dribble of enlongated words and exclaimations, 'Oh, it's space!' leaves the assistants, Rose in particular with their brains oozing out thier skulls.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry'

Right, stop there. Please stop saying sorry to everyone you meet, how is that helping anyone on the brink of death, enemy or otherwise? 'I'm so sorry you are dying' 'Oh it's ok Doctor,' says a humanoid in the process of gooeyfication 'I feel much better now you said that!'

Kill them while you can!

On a similar point, stop the whole reptance nonsense. Stop giving people second chances or trying to negioate/hug/kiss a dalek. Don't you remember what they did to your planet? Your enemies wouldn't waste a second in killing you once your back is turned, so what's all this softie forgiveness crap? I seem to recall in Tennant's first appearance as the Doctor he said 'No second chances.'

The idolisation of Rose Tyler

The doctor and Rose had this wierd, totally unconvincing romantic relationship which seemed to delight the modern audience, however I found it too soppy for my taste. Soppiness without the snogging and midnight fumblings, like watching Twilight. When old blondie got pulled into the paralel world, suddenly she became some legendary woman which no assistant could ever live up to again. She was the Rebecca (a Du Maurier reference!) to Martha's role as new and supposedly inferior wifey. When Rose comes back in series four the legend crumbles. Somehow her face is more contorted than I remember, and her accent is flirting between recieved pronounciation and that of an East London returning from a trip to the orthodontist.

Diabolical doubles

Yes, ok its perfectly acceptable in the world of DW to use the same actors for a number of roles, but its so bleeding obvious who they are, I feel the magic is lost a little. Oh, there's that girl who got killed by the Cybermen, she looks the spitting image of Martha, but no, she's a cousin...ooh clever! Ah and there is Chinese bug girl Chantho in Turn Left looking and sounding pretty much the same despite not being blue. And Amy must have had a great great great great great great great aunt in Pompeii because that soothsayer that keeps cropping up looks distinctly like her.

Continuity Error

The Doctor spent a whole scene in The Fires of Pompeii explaining to Donna that the Tardis translates nearby conversation for them and they in turn can speak said language without knowing it. And that if they try to speak the language themselves i.e dolce vita in ancient Italy, they end up speaking gobbledy gook. They seem to have forgotten this important element when the Doctor meets the Judoon in The Stolen Earth and speaks both English and Judoon right in front of the Tardis.