Target practice

You may remember that a while back, dear reader, I embarked upon a new hobby/sport called archery. You may remember I was an instant fan of loaded weapons being called a ‘sport’. Normally, I start new things and have to work at them, and in the end it tails off and I quit because “it just doesn’t do it for me”, as Lone Star once said.

But archery. Ah, archery. Six lessons down the line and I’m getting worse. About missing it, I mean. It’s an obsession. In fact, it’s coming close to writing as a constant pre-occupation. I think because I only get one hour a week at it, I always feel it’s snatched away before I’ve had enough. I don’t know what would happen if I could last two hours at once. I don’t think I could - my right arm would be dead long before the two hours were up, and the fingers of my left hand would probably lose the ability to curl.

It’s getting to the stage where I should have my own training bow. I know exactly the one I want - I already borrow it for lessons. It likes me and I like it. All I have to do is actually buy it and then it could come home with me - and therein comes the next problem.

Where in the perpetually vexing hell would you be able to practise with it in HK? I mean, the place is not exactly famous for its wide open spaces. I have asked at the block where I live. There’s a huge dance studio, a ginormous aerobics room, a yoga hangar, a multi-function aircraft storage facility and a secret underground lair. Ok, so there isn’t a secret underground lair.

Anyway, even after a lot of bargaining and showing of examples and guarantees of safety, The Management have decided that none of these are available for someone who wants to shoot 16-inch metal arrows that travel at 260 feet per second into an 12 inch thick, 6 foot wide safety bail with a relatively small paper target pinned to the front. I can’t say I blame them - there are a lot of mirrors in all of those rooms, and they’d no doubt be expensive to replace. I’m not suggesting that I’m that bad a shot that I’d take a few out by accident, but, by definition, accidents are inevitable and I’d be stupid to pretend I could never loose an arrow sufficiently off-target to cause some damage. It just means I’ll have to look somewhere else for target practice.


If you happen to know of anywhere, please let me know. I’m thinking of asking the local police if I can use the park outside our block.

Soopytwist.

And the hits just keep on coming

This month has been a trial. I won’t deny it. One of those find-out-what-kind-of-person-you-are months, if you know what I mean. And when I say month, I’m talking about September and October up until this evening. For some reason only known to a handful of accountants ensconced somewhere in Central, my pay is still in transit. It’ll arrive this afternoon, at the close of day. A few weeks later than expected and needed, but hey, life goes on.

It took Liam Gallagher to remind me of this. Stupid, I know. Liam Gallagher is not one of my favourite people by a terribly long stretch of anyone’s imagination. I’ve always favoured Noel. Saw him just recently, too. He did a gig here in Hong Kong and he was BRILLIANT. Put up with some pissed-up teenagers’ heckling, and their Oasis requests, with much more patience than I would have done. He gave as good as he got, too (“You want what? You’re ten years too late, my inebriated friend. You should have been here then - it was fucking brilliant.”), and we all had a great time. He did a few of my personal favourites, such as If I Had a Gun, and AKA... What a Life!. He even did an ambitious arrangement of Wonderwall, and his version of Supersonic was ace. All in all, a very good night out. It was out in Bumblefuck, north Kowloon, but it was worth it.

So, Liam Gallagher. I knew he’d continued his Oasis-ness with the remaining members of said band after Noel had decided he’d had it up to his famous eyebrows with his brother’s temper tantrums and changeable attitude to live gigs (ask anyone if they remember Liam singing half a song and then walking off the stage last time they came to Hong Kong because he ‘wasn’t feeling it’, and you’ll get the full force of non-refunded ticket fury). I knew Beady Eye, as they were now called, had put an album out, but Liam was still a twat in my mind and I made no effort to get a copy. Noel’s new turn, ‘Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds’, and his new album had been my priority, and I wasn’t disappointed, as you already know. Loved it. Got a few of the releases for the B sides and all. Again, not disappointed.

But what of Beady Eye? Out of sheer curiosity, I got their album ‘Different Gear, Still Speeding’ literally three days ago, and gave it a tentative listen. Reaction?

Surprise. In a good way. All in all it’s a cracking record. And it was The Beat Goes On that came up with these lyrics - hardly a new concept, but definitely needed just at the moment I was listening:

And it’s not the end of the world, oh no.
It’s not even the end of the day.

Simple but effective. Thing is, with every track I heard, I kind of missed Liam. He’s sounding very grown up here, and his voice has lost a lot of the harsh arrogance he used to bring to everything without even trying. Instead he’s beginning to sound disturbingly like John Lennon, both vocally and lyrically. Tracks like The Beat Goes On, The Morning Son, For Anyone, and Wigwam are something like what might happen if John Lennon wrote Oasis choons - and it works very well. Four Letter Word (“I’m not really sure what I’m feeling, a four letter word really gets my meaning”) and Bring the Light (“Standing tall? Well fucking tough”), are louder, more attitude-laden, more ‘old Liam’ but by ‘new Liam’. And I have to say I approve. The Roller (his voice is quite haunting here), Beatles and Stones, and Millionaire are - dare I say it - lighter, almost jaunty. But still definitely New Oasis type songs. All in all, it’s an absolute amazement. I don’t mean that Noel was everything and what was left of Oasis - especially Liam - couldn’t have written their way out of a paper bag with him gone, but it’s interesting to see how the two groups have fared without each other. Maybe because of a lack of sibling rivalry and suddenly not having to spend so much time together, the brothers have explored their personal favourites that were probably held back by sharing a group. While Noel has tended toward introspective lyrics in some Sunday afternoon mellow philosophical choons, and then some happy loudness, Liam seems to be torn between bringing the house down with tempered rock rage and making us all believe there’s more to life than smashing things. Which is odd, coming from Liam.

So far, Beady Eye’s ‘Different Gear, Still Speeding’ is stuck on random + repeat on my iPhone and I can’t seem to make myself change it. Perhaps it’s my album of the summer (yes, it’s still summer-like out, even though we’ve just had Mid Autumn Festival and it’s six weeks to the Christmas term break), perhaps it’s my album of 2012 - I can’t be sure.

That’s about it for now. I know, I know - I never update any more. What I’d love to do is fill everyone in regarding the trials and tribulations (I always try to type tribbleations there!) of being a NET in a mahoosive school in the New Territories, but I don’t think that would be a wise idea. Instead, I’ll leave it here.

Peach and lube, everyone.

Sports

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m the least sportiest person in the world. I’m not a runner; I fall on my face (could be something to do with being top-heavy). I used to do kickboxing - about 15 years ago. I’m not that person any more. I go through fads of going to the gym (in my actual residential block) three times a week. These fads last about three weeks. Then I get bored. I’m forcing myself to go each time, and it never gets easier. I don’t enjoy it, I go because I think I should. It makes no change to my weight or body shape, but that hardly matters. It’s just boring. Trainers, coaches, internet people - they will give you ‘new’ and ‘exciting’ workouts, but at the end of the day, it just doesn’t make any difference. It may as well be cooking or yoga or playing the piano - it just doesn’t grab me.

A few weeks ago, I’d had three weeks off work and found myself in need of distraction before I jumped off the balcony just to amuse myself. I appealed to the internet. I asked people to give me a sport that did not include all that running around bollocks, minimal interaction with teams or other sportspeople, that would be something worth concentrating on. Oh, and preferably included shooting something.

The answer I was given was ‘archery’. At first I laughed - why not just suggest walking on the moon or interpretative dance? But then I thought, if I can find a proper archery place here in Hong Kong, I may as well go and try it. I could cross it off my list of ‘trieds’ and get on with the long list of other hobbies I could attempt.

Imagine my surprise when I found, not only an Olympic-certified coach in Jordan, but also that the lesson was mind-bogglingly good. Not in a ‘Whoa, this is cool!’ kind of way, but in a way that made me book another lesson the following week, and discuss the possibility of joining in with the group meets - yes, groups of people! Me! In groups of people I do not know!


I think half of the attraction is that it’s a sport - with no running around. I’m tall, I’m wide, I’m a Victoria’s Secret 36DD, and anything that entails running around is not going to end well. Picture the Honey Monster trying to join in with a McDonald’s birthday party and the carnage that would ensue. There you have it. So there’s the non-leaping-about aspect. Then there’s the pressure of controlling your limbs and entire upper body, conditioning it to snap into the right shape and posture without thinking about it. That’s hard, and perhaps I’ll never get it right, but I can’t stop wanting to. It’s like that thing you can’t have so you want it even more. I hate giving up on anything (which explains my current obsession with getting my PS3 to stream from my iMac without stuttering), so there’s that. Oh, and the fact that you’re holding a loaded weapon and have certain protocols to follow so no-one gets a tip in the eye or fletching in the ear.

Then there’s the fact that, in the last 35 years, I’ve never actually appreciated that my right side exists. I’m left-eyed (and left-handed) so naturally, I should be drawing with my left hand with the riser in my right. However, due to my complete ineptitude and overall incompetence with all things right-sided, my left side is much more developed than my right. Which means, boys and girls, I have to bring that side - the dark side - up to the same level as my left. Difficult? Yes. Impossible? ...Jury’s still out on that one. Suffice to say, along with not being able to get arrows out of a hip-mounted quiver with my right hand (I actually started to reach around me to use my left, before I realised I already had a bow in that one), my actual nocking of an arrow needs some work. I can’t keep my fingers in the right places. Even at full draw. But hey, I’ll get it. Also? Checking your line of sight - and that your abnormally huge elbow muscle isn’t right in the way for a string attack - is really hard when you thought you only had one eye.

Exhibit A: Transcript of attempt to check lines of sight:

Coach: Lean your head in slightly until you can see all the way down the arrow. No, you moved your head too far. You shouldn’t need to--. Oh. You’re using your left eye. Use your other eye.
Me: Right. Yes. Got it.
Coach: Closing your left and opening it again does not make it your right. Close your left eye.
Me: Ok. Ready.
Coach: No, that’s your left eye. Close it.
Me: Ok.
Coach: No, that’s still your left. Ok - try this: close both eyes.
Me: Ok.
Coach: Now only open your right. [pause] No, your right. [pause] Your other right.
Me: This is my other right.
Coach: No, that’s still your left.
Me: Exactly - my other right.
Coach: [sigh] Ok, can I just put my hand--
Me: Do it, or I’ll never get this.
Coach: [gently guides my left eye shut. Holds it down. Other hand pulls up my right eyelid] There, see?
Me: Oh! That’s new! Oh hey - I have another eye!
Coach: [facepalm] Now we’ll try it again.
Me: With my new eye! Cool!
Coach: I can see we have a lot of work to do. [pause] Right, now. Feet - back, abs, shoulders. Drop your shoulder.
Me: That’s dropped.
Coach: Drop it more.
Me: I don’t think it drops any more than that.
Coach: Let me--
Me: Please.
Coach: [attempts to guide shoulder down] Oh. It doesn’t drop any more. What are you, a swimmer?
Me: You jest. Haven’t swum in 20 years.
Coach: Right, well. Anyway. Check your sight: elbow. Swivel it out so it’s not blocking your sight.
Me: Right.
Coach: Swivel it some more.
Me: Uhm... I don’t think it swivels any more than that. I’m really trying.
Coach: Let me--
Me: Please.
Coach: [attempts to guide elbow round] Oh. I see. It really doesn’t swivel any more. Cant the bow a little, draw your shoulder out. There. Compensation. Now: clear sight?
Me: Yes.
Coach: Release.

Apart from having weird elbows and long forearms, and not being able to grasp the concept of a side that isn’t my left, I think it went pretty well. Now I have a reason to go to the gym - proper areas to work on. Now the gym is simply a means to an end, and I have a compulsion to go. Everything screams ‘get it right this time, fuckwit!’. If I can sort my new side out by Christmas, I can change back to my real side and all will be balanced out and well.


So I suppose now I have a legitimate hobby. No, a sport.

Well I never.