[h/t to Jeeves for sending me this link]
I was in Amsterdam last weekend and will be in Istanbul this weekend. Too bad I didn’t know Amsterdam’s beer hot spots while I was there. But I still had some really, really good beer. Since I was in holiday mode, I didn’t make much of a note of what I drank, but they were delicious.
Frommer’s list of the best beer cities in the world includes several European cities. The next time we go city-hopping, it will be to these cities.
Edit: This is a long post, it rambles, but eventually gets to my point. It started out as a post about why the World Cup victory is bitter-sweet to me, so it has a lot of my personal history with cricket. To get to my reasons, skip to the last 2 paragraphs.
In the 2 weeks since the madness of April 2nd there have been countless articles & blog posts written, thousands of tribute vides created, many gifts distributed and god-only-knows-how-many emails circulated about India winning the 2011 Cricket World Cup. Dhoni has been hailed a Midas, Yuvraj as the comeback-kid, and Sachin the saviour of a nation and the person who carried the burden of a billion people until the Cup could be won back after a 28 year gap. Journalists have used the opportunity to write about how the win, the first by a country hosting the World Cup, represents India breaking the shackles of foreign dominance. It is a symbol of the confidence of a country bursting through and taking the bull by the horns.
The night of the victory was special for me (as it was for every Indian). I hugged numerous strangers and a smile was plastered on my face. I’ve been a cricket fan (and sometime cricketer) since I was 10. A vague memory lingers in my head of watching the imposing Imran Khan lift the cup in 1992. 1996 is much clearer to me. My friends and I took to filling out the win/loss brackets in between classes playing hand cricket when teachers weren’t looking. I’m certain I wasn’t the only one embarrassed by Vinod Kambli’s tears after the semi-final in Kolkata. Sri Lanka deserved to win, however. The 1999 edition was perfectly timed – during the summer vacation between my 10th and 11th grades. Sachin’s 140 against Zimbabwe after his father passing away, Rahul Dravid scoring the most runs despite India not reaching the semi-finals and Lance Klusner’s appetite for big sixes are the highs in a tournament that was otherwise largely forgettable for Indian. 2003 was exciting though; I was away from home for the first time and watching and playing cricket with new friends. Trudging through over a foot of snowdrift at 2 am to get to where I’d paid $100, along with 6 others to install a dish so we could receive the broadcast marks the pinnacle in my desperation to see India win. And they almost went all the way. The thrashing they gave England in the group stages, having Zimbabwe and Kenya qualify through to the Super Sixes and finally having to beat Kenya in the semi-final, made me feel like this could be the year. But then Ricky Ponting happened. I wont even go into the 2007 edition, it was that miserable.
In the 19 years since I’ve been watching cricket, I’ve also been one of very few people I know that truly enjoy Test cricket. I watch any game India plays in, all 5 days if possible. And if England, Australia, or South Africa are involved against anyone else I’ll usually watch that game too. I also fancy myself a cricketer of sorts. My first coach believed I’d be a decent seam bowler given my lanky build (at the age of 13). But I quickly found myself more interested in the art of wicket keeping. But given the opportunity I loved having a bat up the order as well. Yes, for a bits and pieces player I didn’t do too badly. I ended the president of the Drexel Cricket Club and even captained the University club team to a memorable tournament victory when the regular captain was unavailable. Tennis ball cricket was a frequent pastime in the American summer as well.
So what is this story about? Yes, I’ve waited a long time for India to win the 50-over Cricket World Cup. Yes, Yuvraj Singh has proved he’s capable of a renaissance, MS Dhoni has appeared out of nowhere to first, be the #1 batsman in ODI cricket, then lead the Indian team to the #1 test rank in the world, and then win both the 20-20 and ODI cricket world cup. But for a fan like me, is it really what should’ve happened for the good of cricket?
I’ve been vocal (when asked, of course) that ODI cricket needs to be put to rest. Despite all its quirks as a sport, I don’t believe that cricket can sustain 3 formats at the international level, especially with only 7 or 8 teams capable of competing at the highest caliber. T20 cricket has been great for the sport. It has lead to innovative stroke play, attacking bowling and cunning captaincy. It has enabled the discovery of players who may never have been given opportunities otherwise (courtesy the IPL). And finally, it has elevated cricket to a truly professional sport. Players who would only ever have played domestic cricket and not earned a sustainable income, now have the opportunity to make a true living just off the T20 format.
Many believe that the success of the 50-over World Cup in India shows that the format is healthy and can survive many more years. The ICC has, in fact, already begun preparations for the 2015 and 2019 editions (to be held in Australia and England, respectively). Sachin will certainly no longer be playing. MS Dhoni & Yuvraj Singh, both 29 years of age, may no longer be playing. That’s not my concern though. My concern is for the longest format of the sport. Will Test cricket still be a viable option in 2019? With our short attention spans, will anyone really care of a game that lasts 5 days? And if fans don’t demand it, broadcasters will now show it. And without broadcasters, there will be no advertisers. And there will be no Test cricket. (When was the last time you saw Table Tennis on TV outside of the Olympics?)
Yes, as much as I enjoyed the 2011 victory (strangers in Trafalgar Square will testify to that), and enjoyed watching every other edition of the cup despite India’s (often lackluster) performances, I believe that it doesn’t bode well for the future of Test cricket. Outside of India, England, Australia and maybe South Africa the sport has become vulnerable. Even in India it is impossible to fill a stadium for a 5 day game unless it is a weekend and there is the possibility of seeing Sachin score a century. And unless Test cricket survives, we will begin to lose what made cricket special in the first place. Maybe the future greats will emerge in the T20 format, but count me amongst the skeptical. The best ODI players have also been the best players in the longer version of the game. No one really remembers Michael Bevan or Ajay Jadeja. They remember Gary Sobers, Brian Lara, Steve Waugh, and Inzamam-ul-Haq. Wasim Akram, Glenn McGrath, Muralitharan, and Anil Kumble are the names that come to mind when one thinks of modern bowling legends. Images of Yusuf Pathan, Mike Hussey, or Paul Valathy will never adorn the dressing room at Lords.
Yes, at the risk of angering 1.2 billion Indians, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it may have been better for the future of cricket as a sport if India has crashed out of the 2011 World Cup early on. We may now never see the next Sachin Tendulkar take guard against the next Shane Warne and that is a loss of immeasurable proportions.
It has always irked me that the carriers in UK Mobile market claimed “unlimited” data when their products are far from unlimited (usually a 500 Mb monthly cap). Something ought to be done about the unfair advertising, or more and more people are going to be facing slowed data throughputs at the end of their 30 day cycle. Now that I’ve been shopping around for broadband, I’ve noticed this false advertising also affects broadband in the UK. While it is true that the increased competition offers lower prices and more features in terms of broadband availability, they all tend to generally advertise “unlimited” plans, while the small print talks about a data cap (generally 5 – 10 GB), after which the provider can slow your available bandwidth.
Lately though, I’ve noticed that some carriers are trying to move away from this (O2 doesn’t seem to have the word “unlimited data” on their home page and it took me a while to find the words “unlimited data an downloads on the Orange website, but find it I did). I attribute this to Three UK promoting it’s One plan, which apparently has “true” all-you-can-eat data. T-Mobile, however takes a different approach on their iPhone page. The wording on this page, under the title “No scary data charges” says, “But we won’t charge you any extra if you go over your limit. And, we’ll always let you browse and email, even if you’ve reached your data limit for streaming videos and downloading files”. Vodafone’s advertising on their website is perhaps the clearest of all – they offer different “web packs” that subscribers can buy, but even the best of those has a paltry 500 MB limit.
Also, why do these companies complicate things with Boosters (T-Mobile), Bolt-Ons (O2), Animal Plans (Orange) and Freebees (Vodafone)? And while I loved the Orange Wednesdays when I used them (2-for-1 cinema tickets), isn’t it just an extra cost that they can pass on to the consumer in terms of lower prices? I wouldn’t stick with Orange for these deals, I moved my number the moment I realised their 3G service was awful.
What prompted this rant? My search for a good broadband provider, now that we’re moving flat’s and need to get our own service. We’ve been using our landlord’s Sky broadband service so far, and while it’s been decent, there are definitely times when I know they’re throttling me down. And what does Sky’s broadband page say? There are 2 plans, the first with a ridiculously low 2GB monthly data allowance. The second one, while claiming to be “unlimited” has a soft cap of 40GB and is subject to network management policies. And oh, I need to sign a 12 month contract. BT is even worse, with an 18 month contract required and the “unlimited” broadband that is capped, but their T&C don’t mention what the cap is. Forum poster seem to claim it is 100 GB, which is decent, I suppose. I can’t seem to find any information on whether BT Vision usage (IPTV) contributes towards this cap, but it shouldn’t.
Anyway, rant time over and some good news: I was very pleasantly surprised at the very decent BT customer service when I ordered a new phone line at the flat we’re moving to. It was set up fairly quick and when I had to make a change to the activation date, it was done without any fuss at all. I was quite impressed. And with regards to the broadband I finally ended up singing with? BE Broadband – apparently the only UK ISP with no caps or any traffic shaping policy.
Note: Tesco mobile (I’m currently employed by Tesco) adverstises “unlimited” web and data on their pay monthly sim only plans, while the paragraph below that says “fair use policy applies” and states the montly data allowance is 500 Mb (yes, with a lower case “b”, meaning megabits.) *sigh*
In the last week or so, the tech blogs have been filled with responses to Amy Chua’s article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior”. Strange place to find this article and responses to it, no? I thought so. Maybe techies have a special affinity for their moms 
. Anyway, I found the whole argument and counter argument quite interesting. I’ve collected all the articles I’ve read on the topic so far and I’m posting links to them here. be warned though, the WSJ links will probably expire soon.
http://is.gd/NVkRCS - The original WSJ article
http://is.gd/M1e75O - A rebuttal on TechCrunch
http://is.gd/GTuvLk - Vivek Wadhwa in BusinessWeek (not a direct rebuttal, but along the lines..)
http://is.gd/EBHtEi - A defence of Western moms in the WSJ
http://is.gd/EDeHCP - Probably my favourite riposte
My own thoughts on the topic? Every mother does her honest best for her children. What the child achieves at end of the day is a combination of luck and hard work (or nature and nurture). If a combination of the right incentives are present, it doesn’t really matter if the mother of a child is Chinese, American, Indian, or British. The child will be successful, regardless.
The Gun in Canary Wharf is hard to find. A 15 minute walk from the tube station, this gastropub can easily be mistaken for a low-key local. But when you step in, you’re greeted by a very nicely decorated, restored interior and a dining room with white linen tablecloths that adds the “gastro” to the pub.
There wasn’t much in the way of a selection of ales – London Pride and Adnams Bitter. A range of imported lagers and expensive looking wines complemented the selection.
The lunch menu is extensive, but as usual there was only 1 vegetarian option for starters and the main course. The starter, a goat cheese, potato, olive and pine nut bake, was excellent. It matched the Adnams Bitter (£3.30) very nicely. The hand cut fries were also excellent, but the main dish, a mushroom and chestnut wellington, was good but not £12.75 good.
According to the interwebs, The Gun has some interesting history to it: It was originally a favourite of Lord Horatio Nelson who would meet his lover in an upstairs room and popular with smugglers who would distribute illegal imports via a hidden tunnel. As a tribute (I suppose) the door to the men’s room has the word “Horatio” painted on it.
Overall, a very interesting experience for a first visit to a gastropub, but not a place I want to revisit.
So after a 3 weeks break over Christmas, my first 100-pub visit in 2011 was the Island Queen is Islington. That is not to say I didn’t consumerany adult-beverages or visit any boozer establishments over the holidays. But The Island Queen was the first blog-worthy pub.
I wasn’t intending it to be a pub visit night, or a pub visit week for that matter. But when Prem called and said we should grab a beer, and said he knew a place I would love, I couldn’t say no.
Like many of the best historic pubs in London, The Island Queen seems to be recently restored and it has a certain period boozer charm. A few chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, floor-to-ceiling windows up front, and plenty of dark wood gives this place plenty of personality.
I had two pints, the first a decent dark porter called Black Horse Porter from the White Horse brewery. The taste of this porter is superb, rich roasted malts give real depth and body to the beer whilst there is a nice hint of dark fruits which add a little tartness without making the beer in anyway fruity or overly sweet. There is a long dry finish and a really surprising kick of hops which really makes this porter sin. The other was Czech beer called Kozel, a fine lager that will go well with masala peanuts (now only if I can find a place that server both). The two pints ran me about £6, and the walk to The Island Queen was a little wet. A perfect way to begin the new year for a beer drinker in London!
Princess Louise on High Holborn has to be the most unique pub I’ve ever come across. The layout has to be seen to be fully comprehended. The front of the pub has 4 doors that lead to 6 or 7 different bar areas, which are actually “booths” surrounded by intricate etched glass and painted tiles. In the middle is a long, island bar that is surrounded by another bar that separates customers from bar-tenders. I’m guessing the separation probably has something to do with social barriers in Victorian London.
The only beer available here is Sam Smith, which many reviews on the web call mediocre, but I call it snooty reviewers dissing inexpensive beer. The £1.99 Old Brewery Bitter is decent, and the £2.41 Sam Smith Stout is fantastic. A light aroma of roasted malts and just a hint of chocolate blended in makes this a supremely drinkable beer.
I got here around 5pm on a Friday evening, perhaps the worst time to visit this pub, since it’s located on the busy High Holborn. The pub was pretty full when I got there and only got fuller by 6:30. If I revisit this pub, it will have to be on an slow afternoon where I can enjoy a few quiet hours tasting beers and enjoying conversations.
I figured I should spend a little more time visiting pubs in the local area. Also, I’m lazy and don’t want to spend £4-5 to travel to a pub in other parts of London. So these excuses, and the fact that I was walking by it on the way home, compelled me to stop at The Famous Cock. The pub is on the corner of Holloway Road and Upper St, right by the Highbury & Islington Underground station. I’ve walked by it several times and always peered in cautiously. A sign about a beer garden in the back seemed inviting, but it is very obviously a home for football (Arsenal) fans, as the pub is always advertising upcoming games.
It was a rare sunny Wednesday afternoon in London and I was walking back home from Angel and I stopped in at a whim. The pub was calm, because of the lack of a football game that day and the fact that it was about 330pm in the middle of the week. Some easy, adult contemporary rock music was playing from the jukebox and the few flat-screen TVs were tuned to Sky Sports. There was just a single bar man attending to about a dozen people bar tabs, serving food, clearing up, and generally looking over worked!
There selection of beers included a pretty generic British ales and the imports. I got a pint of Young’s bitter for £3.45, so the places isn’t cheap. But it is fine local establishment to visit, when nothing exciting is going on.
The North Pole took a little extra effort to locate. But that’s what makes this local Docklands pub special. It is barely a 10 minute walk from the busy Canary Wharf tube station (and ever closer to the DLR), but unless one knows a pub is located there, one isn’t going to find it.
It is tucked away in a corner and the narrow door blends in with the rest of the of the exterior decor, especially when the sun’s gone down. The proprietor was very friendly and broke off a conversation he was having as soon as Reva and I entered to greet us a smile and ask what we’d like. Oh, this is also the first of the 100 pubs that I visited with Reva.
The inside of the pub is nothing special, with a simple (and some would consider tacky) country themed decor that would seem well suited for any English country-side pub. A log-fire was crackling in one corner of the room, giving the inside a very warm and homely atmosphere. We went to the pub around 7:00 PM on a Thursday evening, and there was a good mix of locals and a few suits from the nearby banks/law firms.
I didn’t notice a food menu, but that doesn’t detract from the overall likability of the place. In fact, if they did have a menu, I’d probably avoid trying anything. The beer selection wasn’t anything special either, with the usual selection of European imports and a few English ales. I had the Landlord, one of my usual favourites, for £3.25. Overall, a very nice local pub and one to keep keep in mind if one is trying to avoid the usual chain pubs and their crowds in the wharf.
Full credits to the author, but I enjoyed it so much that I had to reproduce it here: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/hollywoods-take-on-stuttering-b-b-b-balderdash/article1826685/
Ian Brown
From Saturday’s Globe and Mail
Published Monday, Dec. 06, 2010 12:15PM EST
Ducks speak in Hollywood movies. So it’s forgivable that The King’s Speech, which arrived smooth, sleek and fully formed on movie screens in Canada recently, is scientific balderdash.
The movie accurately tells the story of George VI (Colin Firth), born Albert Frederick Arthur George, alias the Duke of York, the stammering second son of Great Britain’s King George V.
Bertie, as he was popularly known, unexpectedly became George VI when his brother, Edward, abdicated for the bossy charms of Wallis Simpson. That left babbling Bertie to lead Britain to battle with Hitler, which he managed with the help of an Australian speech therapist and commoner named Lionel Logue, who became one of the King’s closest and most unlikely friends.
As director Tom Hooper tells the story, Bertie stuttered because he had a terrifying father who had a terrifying father of his own who was in turn terrorized by his mother. Worse, left-handed Bertie was forced to switch to his right and he was strapped into leg braces to correct his knock knees.
The film implies that these external coercions – and those of being born into a life of duty – knotted his tongue. Which is romantic but false. Scientists now know that stuttering is a neurological condition, possibly genetic, and quite likely the result of lesions in the brain.
“The brain works differently in people who stutter,” Luc De Nil, who heads the University of Toronto’s Department of Speech Pathology, told me this week. “And there’s no question that there’s a strong genetic component.”
A stutterer’s brain goes into overdrive at the mere sight of a thing to be named. This electrical outburst interferes with the way the basal ganglia, which control the smoothness and timing of the movements of the mouth, interact with the cortex, the boss of sequencing.
It’s a common affliction, not just one of repressed bluebloods. One in 20 people stutter, and a fifth of them don’t grow out of it. But 80 per cent can learn to tame the affliction with behavioural speech-control techniques (some of the same ones Lionel Logue used on his famous patient).
“Of course, there’s a strong psychological aspect to it as well,” Dr. De Nil adds, “as people who stutter” – PWSes, as they call themselves – “learn to deal with these dysfluencies, which is when all the tics and secondary behaviours, the muscle tensing and the eye blinks, show up.”
There is newsreel footage of the “cured” George VI addressing a crowd in Scotland in 1938: His discomfort is still agonizingly palpable.
The best help you can offer a stutterer is eye contact and patience. Movies have done that scene too, as when John Cleese hilariously extracts the name of the Cathcart Towers Hotel from stammering Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. Consonants are hardest (“It’s K-K-Ken, c-c-coming to k-k-k-kill me”); nine-10ths of stutters occur at the muscle-tensing starts of words.
Jaan Pill, co-founder of the Canadian Stuttering Association, began stuttering at 6. He was finally treated, in an intensive, three-week program, at 41. “I relearned how to speak,” he says today, at 64. “Or I could say I learned fluency as a second language.” The discovery that his stuttering was neurological, not the result of deep psychological conflict, was a liberation.
Unscientific or not, The King’s Speech works because speechlessness is an ancient and useful metaphor. “There’s a hierarchy of disabilities,” a professor of disability studies said to me the other day. “The blind are on top, of course,” because they can display all their rational faculties. Stuttering has nothing to do with intelligence, but its sufferers are further down that status ladder.
There have been as many hare-brained theories on causes – e.g., too much tickling – as wacko solutions (hit the stutterer full in the face on a cloudy day). But stammering itself is universal, an acting-out of the central human struggle between who we hope to be and what we actually are.
Before the treatment, Geoffrey Rush’s Lionel Logue asks the soon-to-be-king if he really wants to be cured, if he can handle the responsibility and power of a voice. Bertie finds his, only to use it, reluctantly, to lead his people into one of history’s deadliest wars. He must have wondered if the words were worth speaking.
