I’m well aware that reading a thousand words of finely-crafted prose isn’t really what you want to read on the weekend (well, unless it’s smutty fan-fiction, then perhaps…) But that’s okay, because I didn’t want to write prose today; I just wanted to take photos, and share them with you!

Here are some pretty photos from a barbecue we had earlier today. Roses and sunsets… enjoy, and have a nice weekend!

(I was shooting up into the sunset, but I had no idea it would look that pretty!)

(I think I like this one. I love the colour/texture of the grass, but the clouds are a little too busy.)

(It was a bit of a surprise to find a little spider amongst the roses, but I think he’s rather pretty… and very green! Anyone know what species it is?)

This year I’ve planned to travel three times but due to a variety of unfortunate circumstances, I’ve ended up sitting on my ass going slowly stir-crazy for eight (8!) months. I’ve not left the country since Italy last October.

In February I was meant to go to Wales — a tour of the coast, from Cardiff to Pembrokeshire, up to Aberystwyth and finally a day or two under the shadow of Snowdonia, the highest mountain in England and Wales! I booked plush hotel rooms and cute, romantic B&Bs. I worked on my cardiac fitness through a strict training regime. I even dug out the dusty Sebby Sex Manual that hadn’t seen active use since university. AND THEN… the girl cancelled two weeks before we were due to leave. Bugger.

In March there was meant to be an epic coming-of-age trip to the Isle of Skye (in Scotland) with my American cousin Mike. But he broke his leg in a cycling accident (I told him exercise wasn’t healthy, but did he listen, nooo…)

And in April I was meant to go to Ireland… but my host, Irish Dave, was held up in Boston (damn those Americans). I’ve always wondered if all those Davids are bothered by the prefixes they get lumbered with: Fat, Small, Irish, Scottish. I’m often glad that I got lumbered with a 9-letter name (and 35 letters in total… thanks, mum and dad). If nothing else, at least my name is unconventional.

Anyway, May has come and gone (it’s birthday season for our family, so it’s hard to excuse myself to travel), and now it’s June. Never have I felt more ready to travel! My fingers scream at me every time I sit down to type and at night my eyes ache, even when shut. Then there’s the matter of overall fitness — it can’t be good to sit around on your ass for two-thirds of a year, right? I’m amazed that when I do travel, I manage to walk for two weeks without collapsing once — though the regular pizza and gelato breaks probably help…

With that whine out of the way, I can now tell you that I’m going to the Faroe Islands! And there’s no girl, cousin or prefixed Dave involved with the arrangements! The Faroes are a small cluster of islands half way between Scotland and Iceland, i.e. in the middle of frickin’ no where, with a grand total of 49,000 wind-swept citizens. The biggest city, Torshavn, has 13,000 people — but the rest of the population is spread out over the archipelago of 18 islands and 120 towns and villages. The smallest town has a population of… 1. The average temperature at the height of summer, in case you were wondering,  is 11 degrees Celsius. But it rarely goes below freezing, what with it being surrounded by lots and lots of water which in turn is under the effect of the Gulf Stream. It’s damp all year round; just how I like it!

Why am I going? Because it’s the most beautiful place in the world. The National Geographic magazine called it the ‘most appealing place in the world’, ahead of the Azores, Bermuda and Hawaii — and if the National Geographic say it’s pretty, who am I to argue?

The main problem is actually getting there. Being, officially, part of the Danish Kingdom, you can fly there from Copenhagen all year round. From the UK you can only fly there during the summer months, and there’s only 1 or 2 flights a week! There’s also the problem of fog. There’s lots of damn fog. It’s not uncommon for there to be too much fog to land the plane, in which case you’re diverted to Iceland for a few days. Assuming you make it to the Faroes in one piece, you then have to find somewhere to stay — tourism isn’t a big thing there, what with there being almost nothing to do, except look at rocks and stuff. I think there are no more than 10 hotels in the Faroes.

Fortunately, I shan’t be staying in an over-priced hotel! I have a friend that I can stay with (God bless World of Warcraft…) and he has a boat to get around with. He’s also an enthusiastic photographer, so I hope he’ll be able to show me all of the sights. He keeps mentioning under-water caves, which I assume are dangerous little things you can visit on your boat while the tide’s out. In fact, I remember some TV episode of ‘Dramatic Reenactment Life Savers’ where a couple of explorers got stuck in such a cave after the tide came in…

Such photographic opportunities leads me into a little business venture I thought of in the shower this morning. My hands were working their way over the rolling, English hillocks of my chest and stomach/paunch when my Jew-sense started tinglin’. My nose actually twitched and my hands stopped moving while I turned the thought over. I have a thoroughly un-Jew nose, which I am normally grateful for, but there are times when I wouldn’t mind it being a bit bigger. Anyway…

The idea is: could I possibly sell personalised landscapes? I was thinking of a beautiful Faroese landscape, with me standing in the corner holding up a piece of paper with your name on it. Like this:

Only it’ll be a prettier landscape, and it’ll be your name instead of ‘SEB’ — or, heck, you can choose your own message. ‘[YOUR NAME] SENT SEBASTIAN TO PROSPECT FOR GOLD’ — whatever tickles your fancy! I will also wear your hair band or hat of choice — of which I have many. I will even share my gold-sequinned Minnie Mouse ears, if there’s enough interest (i.e. someone actually buys a Personalised Sebby Landscape). For the right price, I might even dress up in your costume of choice, but bear in mind that I doubt I can get the fluffy dog suit through customs.

Here are a few photos of the Faroese landscape to whet your appetite. A Personalised Sebby Landscape of similar or even better quality could be yours…!!

(That’s Aurora Borealis — the Northern Lights — which I sadly won’t be able to see during my visit… but they’re pretty, eh?)

Buy your own personalised, amazingly aesthetic Faroese landscape today for only £20!

If I haven’t yet convinced you to buy one (it being a recession and all), I will be demonstrating the wonders of personalised landscapes — and my hairbands — over the next few weeks, before I actually leave (sometime around the beginning of July, I hope). Also, if you have any Nordic/Arctic Circle travel tips, now’s the time to share.

After yesterday’s deep-and-meaningful entry I feel it my duty, as your charismatic host, to break the pensive and thoughtful atmosphere. That’s another thing you might’ve noticed: I like to mix things up; I love keeping people on their toes. I revel in blowing the dust off and sparking far-flung reaches of your brain into frantic activity. It’s also about my own personal enjoyment though: variety is the spice of life, right?

And you have to admit, you have no idea what I might do next.

Without further ado, the results of a photo session from a sunny Spring (Summer?!) afternoon!

A pretty good start. Especially the slightly-quirked eyebrow and pursed lips.

I should explain the next strip of photos: I have a friend called Abi and she recently initiated me into the Way Of The X. Where you make an… X… with your fists/hands. It’s cooler than it sounds. Really, try it. Anyway, this is seven quick photos taken in succession, of me doing THE X. If you don’t get it, that’s fine — just marvel at the facial expressions.

That’s a little weird, I admit…

The thing is, I’d be lying if I said if that was my first attempt at capturing THE X. In fact, it took me about half an hour to ‘nail it’. That means there’s a lot of out-takes. Like… 200 of them. Here’s a small sample, just to prove that I am capable of some truly awesome facial expressions (and you ain’t seen nothing yet!)

Julia Roberts has got nothing on my mouth.

Constipation.

Channel the rage, Sebastian. CHANNEL IT.

… Um… some kind of… Jewish Shylock? Or… something? I don’t know.

A rare example of me actually smiling! Well, about to smile. I cracked up at my father, who insisted on crashing my little photo session…

That’s it for now. The next time you see my expressive face, I should be in a doctor’s jacket for Ask Me Anything on Friday — and if you have anything on your mind this week, ask me!

Phop, phop, phop.

The sound of a fan mere inches from my gonads. The slightest of  slips and, in spectacular fashion, all hope of future Sebastians goes down the drain. Earlier, some of my leg hair got caught between the blades and it hurt like buggery. A small price to pay for wind-chilled testicles though; if they get too hot it can make me impotent, right?

I took my shirt off hoping for a slight reprieve and it worked for a while. But now I’ve soaked through the chair I’m sitting in and not only am I hot, I’m sticky. Sticky.

I’m amazed that my keyboard hasn’t yet short-circuited. I’ve been looking into getting one of those plastic covers that they use in McDonalds to prevent them from getting gunged up with grease. Mind you, death-by-keyboard-electrocution has to be the best way a geek can go…

It’s made all the worse by spending 80 to 90% of my waking life in front of three computers, four screens and an amplifier that generates enough heat that my cats always flock to it in the winter. It’s about 3 kilowatts in total, which is great in winter… but not in the summer. Perhaps I should get out more I often find myself thinking as I swing around in my computer chair, waving my arms about like a retard and desperately trying to create a breeze.

But in a brief moment of clarity I realise I shouldn’t be moaning or despairing: melting into an amorphous puddle of goo in a bedroom surrounded by high-tech equipment with a tall glass of cold, clean water is a lot more desirable than passing out in the wild undergrowth of Central Anatolia, Turkey.

And so it is, with gooey stumps that would make a leper proud, with gangly digits that were once well-formed and finely-honed typing machines, I write this entry.

I had planned to write something else, something deep, but the pervasive heat is debilitating. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the few times I’ve almost died of heatstroke or dehydration. What a thrilling topic for a blog entry. I’ve interspersed a few pretty photos to make it less boring.

June 29th 2009, Sussex, England

(See picture at start of entry)

Consumed four pints (2 litres) of water… and sweated it all out again through my fingers. Laptops should be outlawed in the summer. Sat outside in the sun for a while hoping the breeze would somehow utilise the sweat that glistens from every part of my body. No breeze, just felt like my brain was being baked while still safely within the confines of my skull. The feeling of sweat dripping from under your arms onto your hips and legs is quite unique, but not entirely unpleasant.

July 2007, Cappadocia, Turkey

In hindsight it was perhaps rather stupid to take a taxi ride out into the middle of nowhere and then pick my way over the weird and wonderful ‘moonscape’ terrain of Cappadocia. On a normal day I guess it would’ve just been silly, but in the middle of summer with temperatures reaching over 40C (100F) and only a small bottle of water it was stupid. I was very nearly a winner of my very own Darwin Award. As with most of my recent exploits, it was obviously to take photos — and it was probably worth it, despite the near-death experience. Check out the lovely hand-carved cave that I found while crawling along the ground, gasping for air and praying that someone would find me, or I would find civilisation. This is probably over 1500 years old!

Somewhere in South England, 1996

I actually keeled over in some woodlands by school, back when I was 12. We’d been exploring (as kids do, when they go to private schools in the countryside and they’re skipping a class they don’t like) and… I guess I pushed it too hard. I’ve never been the fittest person in the world — the thought of exercising just for the sake of being fit is completely foreign to me — I always thought I’d rather be reading or sitting in front of a computer learning something.  The pen is mightier than the sword, right?

Anyway, where was I…

Yes, I passed out in the woods and my friends had to carry me back to school. I am told that, to avoid getting into trouble, they conjured up a great story that involved me being bitten by a snake. Unfortunately, we had leaves and twigs in our hair — oops!

Ostia Antica (30 miles from Rome), October 2008

Instead of Pompeii I decided to go to Ostia Antica, an ancient ruin that has always been overshadowed by its volcanically-preserved sister. I think Pompeii is meant to be in better condition but a) Ostia Antica is only half an hour instead of 4 hours from Rome, and b) it’s almost completely devoid of tourists — so I went to Ostia and it was awesome! Except for the nearly-dying bit.

For the 8 hours I was there I saw three people — and we’re talking about a large city that once had a population of 75,00 people! Originally it had acted as the harbour city of ancient Rome between the 7th century BC and 4th century AD, and some pesky Arab pirates finally caused its downfall in the 9th century. Anyway, I ended up very lost in some ancient Mithraic catacombs; lost and without water.. in the dark. Let me tell you something: ancient religious sites are scary. Dark and scary and damp and silent… except the occasional skitterings of creatures you will never see. I will write about it properly as my travel stories of Italy have finally reached Rome — but the point is… actually, I don’t know what the point is.

Why am I writing in this weather? I’m going to look for another fan…

These are my legs, Jesus sandals and shorts.
Sorry for opening with such a picture, it’s unforgivable. But all will become clear as you read on…

Being a man, body hair, schlong and all, there are some things that do not come naturally. Remembering anniversaries. Washing my hands after using the bathroom. And organisation, planning. Lists, I hate lists. I might come across as a deliberate, slightly-gay, well-measured guy that organises his books and DVDs alphabetically, and makes sure everything is just so, but I assure you that isn’t the case. There are a few things that I’m good at: photography for one, I’m perfectionist in that regard. Video games? I’m down-right pro at video games. Rational thought too: if you want someone to make the right choice at the right moment, I’m your man.

But these are living-in-the-moment affairs. It’s the long, over-arching planning that I suck at. If the devil is in the details, I’m Jesus. I don’t keep a diary or even a wall calendar marked with important dates. The only birthdays I usually remember are my parents’. When someone asks me if I’m available next weekend I shrug non-committally, say ’sure!’ and pray no one else has requested my presence elsewhere (I don’t have many friends so I’m usually safe in this department…) In short, I’m a man and I require a good woman to do my thinking and planning for me. Currently this is a role fulfilled by my mother, but I’m sure there’ll be a lucky wife eventually…

[If you can't deal with vivid 'male bits' imagery, the next bit is probably not for you. If you do like stories of this kind, go check out Lilu's blog!]

Anyway, to cut to the chase: I’m the kind of guy that packs his bags only a few hours before he leaves. And I always forget something. I’m fairly experienced at the whole bag-packing thing so I rarely forget anything important — I’ve only forgotten my mobile phone charger once and I’ve never left my passport at home! — but on more than one occasion I have forgotten to pack… underwear. That’s right, I spent 12 days in Turkey, in 40-degree (104F) heat with just a single pair of boxer shorts. (Don’t worry, I had two pairs of socks, my hygiene wasn’t that bad…)

I’m going to use the same picture so you can look at them again but with this new information in mind!

(See those crinkles? They are well worn. They say ‘kiss’ all over them, if you can’t make it out. And those are red lips printed on.)

You’ve probably heard about the ‘back to front’ and ‘inside out’ techniques of odor-mitigation and boxer freshness longevity (or more simply ‘the underpant inversion method’ as I like to call it). You’ve probably seen it joked about in films like American Pie or Van Wilder. You probably laughed and said ‘Eww! Gross! No Way!’

What you didn’t know is that men actually do it.

I know, it’s too disgusting to contemplate, but men actually wear the same underwear for days or even weeks at a time! With creative folding, those sprays that people use to remove the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and a radiator or hair dryer, a man can stretch out one pair of boxers an awfully long time.

In my case, on no less than three different holidays, I’ve taken only one pair of boxer shorts.

I wore them while clambering over the ancient ruins of Thermessos in Turkey. It’s safe to say I perspired rather heavily in the process. Six days later I was still wearing them when I went for a hot-air balloon ride with five other people — they kept throwing odd glances in my direction (which is not unusual) but instead of staring as they usually do, they grimaced and pinched the bridge of their nose, a look of revulsion spreading across their face.

Then in Prague, through 3 days of drunken debauchery and sweaty hiking around the city, I wore the very same boxers. I had washed them since Turkey though.

Finally, during a 4-day LAN Party, I forgot to bring spare underwear. Four days of sitting on my ass, four days of no showers. In the middle of summer and surrounded by 1000 other gamers and computers.

I had to use rubbing alcohol and a chisel to prise them from my skanky, geeky legs. I even had to get my mother to come and help. What can I say, we’re close.