I am going to Nepal for three weeks. So no more blogging until then.
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At a conference for a week so no more bloggin’.
I’m off to Calcutta for a few days and also have a lot of professional VSO stuff to sort out over the next week or so. Hence not much blogging. And not anymore for a week.
I’ve been holding back all season from writing anything about Tottenham, because it’s too personal, but on Saturday morning I was stunned when watching Football Focus on BBC World. Normally I think Mark Lawrenson spouts inane rubbish, but when the subject of Spurs’ recent revival came up he said something sensible for maybe the first time ever:
“Berbatov – what a player eh? I mean, we’ve said that all season, but at the moment he’s playing like God”.
This guy Poul Williams has written a short introduction to learning Bangla, whilst going through the challenge himself.
It’s a pretty good little site, for all of you brave enough to take the test…
Before I came to Bangladesh, I worked for 18 months for the Remember Saro-Wiwa campaign.
One of our biggest projects was the creation of a new, Living Memorial to the murdered activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, and his eight Ogoni colleagues who were also hung in 1995 for leading non-violent protests against the oil industry in the Niger Delta.
The Living Memorial is a landmark new piece of art, not just for London, but the whole of Britain. And it was launched on November 10th, the 11th anniversary of Saro-Wiwa’s execution.
The Guardian are RSW’s media partners and have just posted an extensive flash page about the Living Memorial here . Enjoy.
Found out one of the bad sides of Dhaka last night. Went to an incredibly swanky cafe for a cup of coffee and kebab, called Mango Rooms, with interior design so good it would shame Paris or New York or London. Everything going quality and then hit by yet another power-cut (big problem at the moment). So we paid and left, and then walking back, in the darkness, I got caught in mud. To avoid it I stepped on some straw that people had placed on the road. Except the straw was covering a well of sewage.
Only when my foot had gone through the crusty layer in to the warm wet excrement did I realise what had happened and managed to extract my leg. It. Was. Rank. Had to walk all the way back to the flat with Dhaka’s dirtiest squelching in my toes, with Tom and Georgia laughing until the stench started to hit them. My foot smelt so bad it would have paralysed a race horse. And then our bloody keys wouldn’t work in the door (because it was pitch black) and we were hot and stressed. Must have sweated out a pint just faffing at our three locks, in the 30 degree heat and high humidity.
Absolutely rank. Learnt a valuable lesson of never place your foot where you can’t see solid ground beneath it. Bloomin… &^&SY*S*!”$%^!!!!!