I really don’t have to write this post. Really. And to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not sure why I am. The topic certainly has no place on a travel blog, and it has the potential to do me more harm than good. Then again, that’s rarely stopped me from opening my mouth before inserting both feet.
If you were near your Twitter feed yesterday, you may have wondered why there was so much chatter about the UK’s favourite uncle, Stephen Fry. People were up in arms at the possibility of Stephen putting an end to his Twitter activity for good, after some dastardly Machiavellian type accused him of stealing babies from the womb and devouring them whole. Of course that isn’t what happened at all; an individual of no more social standing than you or I commented that he found Stephen’s Twitter activity a little drab sometimes. Out of the thousands of tweets that fly past his eyes every day, Stephen noticed that comment and in that moment found it so upsetting that he questioned whether he should continue.
Now you may have had one of several reactions when you became aware of this. I watched the fallout occur in real time yesterday, and my reaction was:
- the BBC will turn this into a news story within the day, despite it being nothing of the sort
- this is going to prove why Twitter, despite everything it has achieved and its potential to achieve so much more, is at the mercy of hypocrisy and mob rule
The BBC once more aligned their output with that of Heat magazine and proved me right on the first point, and seemingly everyone else proved me right on the second. Give Twitter a scapegoat and enough rope, and it becomes a lynch mob. Once again the Twitter community embarrassed itself by taking up burning torches and pitchfolks, and hounding some poor bastard for having a point of view; see here and here for examples of the kinder replies, and the staggering torrent of abuse towards individuals from Alan Davies.
Unbelievable. Seriously, I don’t know what else to say. Fucking unbelievable. And then, moving on to the actual topic of this post, the comments took another turn:
There are plenty more tweets saying similar, but why? What has it got to do with anything? Why are people demonising an individual because he criticised a person who has bipolar, as if those with the disorder should be treated differently, or are in some way different themselves? “Calling a bi-polar person ‘boring’ is as stupid as calling an anorexic ‘fat’.” No it bloody isn’t – individuals with bipolar are very capable of boring the face off a clock.
And if these comments don’t do enough to highlight a complete ignorance of the disorder, then plenty more do:
What stereotype is that, exactly? The one bandied about by half-arsed screenwriters and hacks desperate for a crutch because they can’t write their way out of a wet paper bag? That people with bipolar are hammer-wielding maniacs, thieves or deviants who are a constant menace not only to society, but themselves?
Sweet muscular Jesus.
As you will have realised, this is a subject I feel strongly about and no doubt some of you will have put it all together as to why. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder three years ago, although I’m aware I’ve lived with its effects since I was 16. It’s not a fact I’ve broadcast in public until now, but then plenty of people know and I’m not desperately worried about keeping it a secret.
Diagnosis of bipolar leads to understanding, and understanding leads to control. I know when I’m likely to be susceptible to its effects because I now understand what my triggers are, and I’m very capable of controlling it. If I do stumble, I have a small circle of friends who’ll pick me back up. Otherwise, nobody is aware of the condition or judges me as a result, and I’d take issue with anybody who did. There may well be several people reading this post who are wondering whether they were naive to invite me into their homes in March as I travelled the world, but that’s the point. Read the blog entries again and I think it’s very evident the pressure my journey put on my health. There was, however, no trail of canibalised bodies left around the globe in my wake. Not that they’ve found, anyway.
By all accounts, Stephen was having a low day yesterday, and in that situation one tiny, irrelevant speck of inconsequential minutiae can plunge you into the depths of loneliness and despair. That’s what bipolar is – it’s manic depression, with emphasis on the mania. A stranger in Birmingham didn’t know his comment would have the reaction it did, but then Stephen probably didn’t know it would either. And it certainly wasn’t a melodramatic reaction on Stephen’s behalf, not once you understand – I’ve come close to deleting my Twitter and Facebook accounts on a whim because I’ve felt threatened or too exposed. That said, a person with the disorder is perfectly capable of being in a bad mood, just because they’re in a bad mood – we’re as likely to feel fucked off at the world for no good reason as the next person.
So why come out now? Am I so desperate for attention I’ll whore my medical history in public? Not at all. Revealing this aspect of my health certainly doesn’t benefit me professionally or personally.
Yesterday’s baying mob proves there is a desperate ignorance about mental illness. At some point, people need to wake up to the fact that like zombies, happiness ever after and CSI Miami, what they see on television and in films isn’t real. Bipolar isn’t necessary some hellish purgatory that damns the inflicted to eternal suffering, but their treatment by others who blindly accept such stereotypes certainly can be.
If Stephen’s open admission hasn’t taught people that bipolar is no more a social stigma than an aversion to using public toilets or a fondness for corduroy, then clearly there needs to be far more discussion about the issue. It was his openness that led to my diagnosis, and I’m now confident enough in myself to be as forthright. Coming out about my illness will barely make a dent in the public psyche as a whole, but it might help a handful of people understand how dangerous, misguided and upsetting such stereotypes are. Bipolar disorder isn’t a condition that demands pity, tolerance or blind assumptions – only understanding and acceptance.
Filed under: travel | Tags: charles darwin, wolgan valley, wolgan valley resort and spa, wollemi national park
I seemed to have inadvertently stumbled into paradise.
Not a generic, unspecified paradise of sun, sand and Gillian Anderson lathering my back in lotion while whispering filth in my ear, but somewhere very rugged, natural, historical and real. And I hardly arrived here by accident – I’m three hour’s drive from Sydney, miles from the nearest town. This is a region of Australia that few if any tourists ever, ever stray so far from the coast to enjoy.
The Wolgan Valley Resort and Spa is a AUD$125 million development by Emirates. Surrounded by the steep fists of the Blue Mountains in the Wollemi National Park, the resort only opened a fortnight ago. There are no towering skyscrapers of ugly punching holes in the skyline, just 40 single story villas scattered across a hillside. Emirates have been heavily involved in restoring indigenous species to the area; of the 4,000 acres occupied by the site, the buildings only cover two per cent of the land.
Right now I’m sat in my own private suite, the most sumptuous accommodation I have seen in all my days. To my right, my personal lap pool. Ahead of me, an original homestead settled in 1832, in the valley Darwin explored while collecting geological samples in the area. It’s there, through my window, not a minute’s walk away.
I wasn’t expecting internet access since there’s no mobile signal this deep into the valley, but the resort has wi-fi installed in every suite. Splendid. So before lunch and a tour (I’m desperate to visit that homestead and indulge in its wonderful history) I thought I’d pop by and share this rather wonderful place with you.
Filed under: travel | Tags: crave sydney, fort denison, oysters, shark island, sydney, sydney harbour, sydney international food festival, world chef showcase
I’d never considered Sydney as a destination for foodies until I arrived here. Obviously any major city attracts its fair share of renowned restaurants, but this place is teaming with them; the Good Food Guide 2010 is like a telephone directory. This is a place that loves food.
As part of Crave Sydney, the International Food Festival has hosted the World Chef Showcase this weekend. Chefs from around the world arrived at Star City to demonstrate the fine art of food in front of attendees; imagine Ready Steady Cook without the £5 bag of groceries, the contestants who can’t chop an onion or Ainsley Harriott mugging for the camera, and you’ll realise this is nothing like Ready Steady Cook at all and I’ve wasted your precious time making the comparison.
Instead what you have is an astounding line-up of the world’s unsurpassed kitchen talents; I may not be a professional foodie, but I know Rainer Becker is one of the best in the business. And I may not have a well-developed palette, but when Neil Perry discussed the composition of his 3 Shot Chicken (a shot of soy, one of chilli and another of Coopers Pale Ale) as I was simultaneously dribbling the free sample down my last clean shirt, it all made sense; so the portions weren’t the size of my Nana’s chicken dinner but if I took the time to actually taste my food, I’d discover something quite wonderful.
The culinary education didn’t end there. A group of us took to Circular Quay to tour the four islands in Sydney Harbour; Crave Sydney is the first time the public has been able to tour all four on a water taxi, hopping from one to another. We ate lunch at Fort Denison, a flattened length of rock on which defenses were built to protect the city (not that it was always flat; most of the island was quarried in the 19th Century to build the nearby Circular Quay).
Despite the remote position in the harbour, island life isn’t dull according to one grizzled member of staff welcoming visitors:
“You see a lot when you’ve worked here a long time. Sharks, whales, dolphins. Even saw a body once. That was interesting.”
As we sat down to lunch, writer Graeme Reid told us how his father remembered the scene a very different way; he described the harbour as once been home to so many sharks, you felt you could walk across their backs from one side of the harbour to another. Like James Bond in Live and Let Die, I imagined.
I played the lunch card safe with Gorgonzola tart and egg linguine, but Graeme and our host Tonia opted for oysters. Apparently the oysters served up were the best Australia had to offer. That’s all very well, I said, but they look like a mouthful of flu in a shell. I ate one anyway – you can’t talk with authority on a matter through apathy and inaction – and while the experience wasn’t as completely revolting as I had suspected it would be, I can safely safely say oysters won’t be troubling my menu selection in the near future.
There are plenty of new photos of the island hopper tour on Flickr – let me know what you think!
Filed under: travel | Tags: crave sydney, rockpool, spice temple, sydney opera house
I wasn’t expecting my flight from New York to Sydney to take quite so long, certainly no longer than a flight from London to Sydney. The possibility warps logic a little; after all; you’ve already flew across 3,500 of Atlantic Ocean – surely that puts you closer to Oz, right? Of course it doesn’t; from London to Sydney is a little shy of 9,600 miles, while NYC to Sydney is just under 10,000 miles. Approaching Sydney from the states means crossing the International Data Line and flying several thousand flying further on into the Eastern hemisphere.
Still, I thought I’d feel worse after 29 hours of travelling, but I seem to be developing a resistance to tiredness and jetlag. I have no problems accepting the time difference; you lose all bearings while sealed in a pressurised steel tube for hours on end so it doesn’t seem unreasonable to accept you’ve lost a day and it’s light outside instead of dark. What I do struggle with is my perception of when I started travelling. I left New York on Thursday lunchtime – by the time I arrived in Sydney yesterday morning, that seemed like weeks ago. The routine of sleep provides reasonably fixed bookends to my days, and when I lose these points of reference even recent events are distorted.
So here I am, my first trip to Australia. It took me 15 minutes to have a shave once I arrived – I had to keep checking the view out the hotel window to confirm that yes, that was the Sydney Opera House looking up at me. I’ve yet to see much of the city, save for a brief mosey around the opera house and into the Botanical Gardens at Circular Quay.
The opera house is obviously known worldwide for those pristine white teeth that bite into Sydney skyline, but close up the building is even more fascinating. The structure is covered in over a million ceramic tiles tinged with creams and greens, rather the uniform crisp white skin we imagine; there are patterns within patterns, more as you move closer and closer:
Last night was spent dining at Rockpool Bar & Grill, a world-class restaurant spread across the lobby of a former bank. The original Art Deco fittings provided a decadent setting to a venue that has 9,000 bottles of wine stashed away in the original bank vault. Downstairs in Spice Temple, fiercely delicious aromas of Asian cuisine thickened the air as our group sampled cocktails based on the Chinese calendar; I drank a whole Horse, and it’s not often you can say that.
Filed under: travel | Tags: empire state building, esb, fallout shelter, new york city
Having been tour guide to my mother for the past couple of days, I’ve re-visited plenty of places I’ve seen countless times since my first visit to New York five years ago. But yesterday I got to play tourist again, up the top of the Empire State Building at night. The view through the day is outstanding, but by night it’s overpowering; the legions of skyscrapers and light bombard your poor retinas into submission.
I’ve got a battered Kodak digital point-and-shoot thing but I’m really happy with some of the photos from 86 floors above Gotham. Bracing the camera against the steel railings and using a half second exposure really helped pull the detail out without any noticeable shake.
Another curiosity from our criss-crossing of Manhattan was this, tacked to the side of an apartment building on 72nd St in the Upper West Side. There are several more examples to be found on Flickr – a throwback to the state of a nation 50 years ago in the grip of the Cold War.
There’s a great article here in the New York Times about an intact shelter found at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge in 2006. The fact that such a place can be lost to time for half a century is amazing.
I’ve uploaded a handful of photos to Flickr and I’ll push some more up over the next week before I head off to Sydney. Let me know what you think!
Filed under: travel | Tags: grand central, manhattan, new york, rudy's, the pony bar
After a somewhat sticky situation at Heathrow yesterday afternoon, I arrived in New York last night irritated but happy to be back. The usual cataclysmic debauchery of attempting to drink all the Jägermeister in Manhattan was sadly skipped, since I’m playing host to my mother for the next couple of days. I did manage to sink a first drink at Rudy’s in Hell’s Kitchen though – it’s a tradition, an old charter or something – and called into The Pony Bar, a rather fine real ale bar around the corner at 45th and 10th. I’ve just listened to the AudioBoo I recorded there, fearing it may have suffered at the hands of the third and rather potent pint of Sierra Nevada’s Brown Saison (7.9%), but fortunately that’s not the case.
So I’ll be dragging my mum around New York to the usual tourist traps for the next couple of days. It’s delightful to see the sense of wonder on the face of a first-time visitor, or perhaps it’s because we haven’t seen one another in a year. My Canadian grandfather lived in the UK from his teenage years to sprightly age of 88, and last year he returned home along with my mum to see out his final years.
I’ve just been informed she hates this photo. I’ll admit it’s not going to win awards any time soon, largely because my moon-shaped head is bothering the shot, but she looks giddy to be here so it’s pretty much perfect.
Filed under: comment | Tags: movember
Another day, another post that has no place on what I laughingly refer to as a travel blog.
But again, it’s an important post. Yesterday we had bipolar. Today, cancer. It’s chuckles all the way, kids.
It’s not that grim, honest. Movember is a movement that began in Australia some years ago; those involved have the whole month of November in which to grow a moustache. And that’s it. When there’s a noticeable rise in the number of dudes looking like they’ve stumbled out of Life On Mars (ladies you’re welcome to get involved, but I’m not saying a word), people ask why and there’s the opportunity to explain. Movember is all about raising awareness of men’s health issues in general, and raising money for prostate cancer charities in particular.
Millions have been raised by this apathetic attitude towards the top lip. I met a couple of the guys involved in setting Movember up when they visited Newcastle last month – not only can they drink a camel under the table, but they’re passionate about their cause.
So here I am, a Mo Bro for the next 28 days. Fortunately if there’s one thing I can do very well, it’s grow facial hair. It’ll be as thick and luxurious as a Swiss forest at nightfall. But don’t think this will be easy. It’s won’t. I’ll want to hack the bastard off after a fortnight. This is going to drive me insane. So two things you can do for me:
- donate a little money towards this brilliant cause – a couple of pounds or dollars would be great, perhaps more since it’s been seven months since I pestered you for donations
- help me choose a moustache style; there are a couple of days left before I’ll have to make a firm choice, and I can’t decide what to do with my follicles. If any particular style catches your eye, let me know: