Will Gompertz - my new idol

This lunchtime I went along to a talk on modern art by Will Gompertz. For those of you who don't know he's the BBC's Arts Editor and appears on the news quite frequently doing unenviable things like interviewing film stars or visiting art galleries. He looks a bit like a mad professor (long hair flanking a rather bald brow) and, prior to today, was going someway to rivalling my all-time favourite BBC journalist, Andrew Marr. He seems to be getting almost as much airtime these days as Nick Robinson, and, like most humans, makes Robert Peston seem very dull and full of himself (but I must save my Peston rant for another time).

I don't know if I'm allowed to say why he was at our offices, so I'll keep quiet on that front for the time being. To our benefit he gave us a rendition of his Edinburgh Festival show, an introduction to modern art in the guise of a classroom lesson. The show was quite a success apparently, and the little man who introduced him (who was very excited) proudly exclaimed that it was a sell out. An embarrassed Gompertz pointed out that it was quite a small venue.

Gompertz really is an impressive speaker and had the whole room laughing from the start with his self-deprecating humour (he kept on stressing that he wasn't very funny). Best of all he didn't give a complete rendition of his Edinburgh show, but rather a commentary on what he did, so that we saw how he had gone about trying to make art funny. Some of it was rather childish and silly, but Gompertz was so aware of what he was doing that he made it rather endearing. In an effort to find out what we knew about art he made us all draw penises in the style of the art movements he wrote on his blackboard. It's not particularly nice seeing your mother draw a penis, especially when it's in a Pointillist manner, although my pop art penis was rather feeble compared to hers. Nevertheless he made something which could have been rather dull entertaining - I can most definitely see him presenting his own shows in the future. For the time being however he'll just have to settle with being my new idol.

Atonement

Three years after everyone else in the world saw it I finally got round to watching Joe Wright's 'Atonement' this weekend. It was a drizzly Sunday afternoon so a depressing film was in order, and Wright duly obliged. I must admit I haven't read the Ian McEwan book so was more attracted by it's Hollywood heavyweights, Keira Knightley and James McAvoy. I've been a particular fan of McAvoy's ever since he appeared in Shameless and State of Play (on the telly), and I was even more delighted to find out that he is a whole three inches shorter than me.

I was quietly hoping the film would be a bit of a failure though, in which case I could steal Rosamond Pike from the irritatingly successful Wright. If you haven't seen her in 'An Education' you should probably should do.

To my disappointment I was quite enjoying the film though. It is beautifully shot, has a nice loud typewriter detailing the various locations and features an incredibly rude word. I particularly liked the four-and-a-half minute long scene where McAvoy and his chums wander along the Dunkirk beach. It was refreshing to see Dunkirk in a darker, less triumphalist light.

Nevertheless whilst I was appreciating the movie I didn't anticipate in the slightest how upsetting I would find the last third of it. I think that the best films stay with you beyond the 3 hours spent watching them, and in the case of 'Atonement' I couldn't help but mull it over all day. It was completely haunting. I think I need to watch it again, but in the meantime Joe can keep Rosamond. He deserves her.

Ask Hadley

On my way home today I was accosted outside Kings Cross station by a man who pushed a copy of today's G2 into my hands. I thanked him, a little surprised, and he smiled at me and continued in his work, possibly the only person I have ever seen enjoying his job as a 'newspaper-thrusterer'. I was quite glad he did though as my journey home took a lot longer than it should have, during which time I read the supplement from cover to cover.

Of course, like everyone else who claims to have an interest in writing or anger, I'm a fan of Charlie Brooker, although his piece on fast food didn't leave any great impression on me. Instead I found myself chuckling along to the style agony aunt Hadley and her tirade against 'faux vintage' clothes - 'always sloganed clothing that features a juxtaposition of primary colours and says something unbelievably irritating such as "Jerry's Crayfish Stall"'.

Oh Hadley, how I feel your pain! My dislike of popular brands doesn't come from wanting to be different from everyone else (like those pretentious indie boys who wear granny clothes) but more from the sense that I would have been conned into trying to be cool. I'm not cool but I'm not particularly uncool either. I don't feel particularly strongly about making a statement with my clothes. I shop at Gap and Next ok?

Last week I went to Thorpe Park with a friend. We invented the games 'Jack Kills' and 'Supercry', which basically involved hurting each other whenever we saw a relevant piece of brattish clothing. Particularly uncool and childish but fun nevertheless. Well done Hadley.

My last few days of Solitude

Unbelievably the time has almost come for me to go home. It's quite surreal when I think that I've been away since January!

I'm currently in Port Douglas (Australia), about an hour north of Cairns. Ella abandoned me the other day and so my last few days have been with no-one but Gabriel Garcia Marquez and a few friendly lizards to keep me company. Talking of Ella, she's much better at this regular blogging malarky when it comes to travels. If you want a detailed account of what we've been up to Down Under you should probably visit hers! Otherwise ask to borrow my delightfully illustrated journal when I'm back.

There's a chatty Scottish guy in my dorm at the moment. He's been traveling since October 2008 and is disgusted that I've "given up" and decided to return home. He spends everyday playing computer games, smoking joints and trying it on with much younger female backpackers. I don't think I like him. But anyway, each to his own. I can't imagine hating home so much that you'd never want to return. Luckily I love old London town.

See you soon!

Home?

After spending the last few months venturing through Central and South America I was excited to be visiting New Zealand, a country where I could practise my very best English.

I hadn't realised that language wasn't the only similarity this country has with my fair homeland however. Not only does the traveller circuit seem to be completely swamped with Brits, there are a huge number of ex-pats working here (the hostel I stayed in last night was owned by a bloke from Burnley), the Queen adorns their coins and they even drive on the left side of the road.

I could deal with these minor irritations however - the reason I had come to New Zealand was the stunning scenery. Of course, it turns out that New Zealand looks identical to England too. The fields remind me of Somerset and the coast (draped in drizzle) is reminiscent of those dreary summer holiday days spent in Cornwall. Even dolphins weren't enough to convince me that I hadn't actually come home.

I do love home, but I've travelled half way around the world to see something a bit different. Apparently things get a bit more interesting as I head further south...

A Little Blue in the Face...

The worst aspect of the rainforest is, without doubt, the insects. Despite smearing toxic ´DEET´ over my body several times a day those pesky mosquitos always find a way of getting to my supple skin.

So imagine my sheer delight when Gigo, a member of staff working at Taricaya Ecological Reserve, told me of a totally effective natural insect repellant. We were checking on our butterfly traps deep in the jungle when he spotted some fruits lying on the ground. I was told that such fruits could only be collected two or three times a year and that, when mixed with alcohol, they produced a smell so strong that not even the most determined mosquito could bear to get within a few yards of you. To demonstrate the effectiveness of said fruit Gigo then proceeded to show me his arms which were, surprisingly, completely free of the marks and blisters that have become a trademark of mine.

I was very excited. Gigo also assured me that the repellant would be effective for a whole week. This meant that not only would I be protected against the critters, but that it would save me a lot of money too (manufactured repellant doesn't come cheap).

That night, along with about fifteen of the other volunteers, we prepared the fruit. We sliced them in half and then mixed the seeds with alcohol to make a paste. Then we all covered ourselves, not wanting to leave any skin exposed. Gigo helpfully rubbed the repellant all over my face.

Of course in hindsight I realise that everything about Gigo´s story sounded too good to be true. A free, natural, 100% effective insect repellant? Of course it wasn´t. A couple of hours later we discovered the real function of the devilish fruit - it is used to make the paint that people in this region of Peru use to colour their houses. And so now, along with practically every other volunteer, my face and arms are completely blue, and will be for the whole next week...

This week I have been mostly...

... struggling with sickness.

This has not been fun in the slightest. Before coming to the jungle I had been warned that it would be a common occurence but there still wasn't much I could do to prevent it. Despite the numerous pills I popped and gallons of water I drank nothing would stop my fever, headache and stomach cramps. I got quite delusional at one point, and if there is one thing in the jungle that you don't need more of I can assure you it is sweat.

One misguided fool back in the UK just told me she thinks it all sounds "quite romantic/film-like". I would like to show her my toilet bowl.

Aside from this near-death experience the week had a few highlights. I added to my growing list of fishing triumphs with four fish caught of the back of a boat with only a stick, piece of string and worms I'd pulled out of the ground, performed admirably in a sack race, had egg splatted in my face from thirty yards in the infamous 'egg catching contest', and planted cedar saplings for an indigenous tribe. So it's not all bad.