Put A Soc In It!: Clay Pigeon Shooting

This week's escapades - online here.

Stress busters. I’ve tried them all. From lavender bath salts to meditative yoga to compulsive chocolate digestive eating, I’m yet to find the ideal solution.

After being set an essay that threatened to ruin my weekend, desperate times called for desperate measures. Mere stress busting would not do: I needed something that would smash it to smithereens. It was time to call in the clay pigeon shooting club to help me let off a considerable amount of steam.

Lest it be feared that I’m a potential threat to my fellow students, I can assure you that everything was monitored and controlled by excellent coaches, who provided an in-depth safety talk before letting us anywhere near the weapons. Once outside, I was first to have a go. Let me tell you, those guns are powerful machines, and not to be underestimated. I heaved it up on my shoulder, waited for my target to be released, pulled the trigger – and missed by a mile. “Oh, but it feels good, doesn’t it?” the coach said with a grin. A few pathetic attempts later, I finally hit one. My stress had been blown to pieces, and what was left of it lay scattered across the field in front of us. “Atta girl!” the coach called out, giving me a mighty pat on the back.

I took a break to allow others to get their thrills, and noticed my cheek getting sore. One of the more experienced shooters explained that I probably wasn’t “cuddling” my gun properly. I never thought I would hear the words “cuddle” and “gun” in the same sentence, but there you go. On my next turn I clutched the gun close into my cheek and took aim – only to be stopped by my coach to correct my posture. The best stance is, apparently, sticking out your bottom and leaning slightly forward. Not the most ladylike of positions, I’ll admit, but since I hit considerably more targets this time round, it was a concession I was more than happy to make.

Having sorted out my stance, there were certain technical tricks that would also help me. I’m no physics whizz kid, and the thought of calculating the precise point to shoot so that you don’t miss the moving target was enough to get my brain thoroughly muddled. “You’re over-complicating things, my dear,” the coach reassured me. The trick is – so I’m told – to shoot just slightly ahead of the target, so that it will fly into the shot and meet its bitter end.

Imagining the clay pigeon that was now flying across the sky, oblivious to the shot that would soon blast it apart, was in fact that horrible supervisor who had set me the unwelcome essay, I followed the coach’s instructions. As it collided with the shot I had fired and showered down in fragments, I felt a sense of cruel gratification. When I got back to college I still had to write the essay. But I nevertheless smirked with satisfaction knowing, in my mind at least, that I’d taken my revenge.

Put A Soc In It!: Trampolining

My latest exploits can be read about here...

Having established last week that watery depths don’t exactly float my boat, this week I took on the opposite extreme: the dizzying heights of trampolining.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite anticipated the preparation my body would require in order to withstand two hours of being bounced in every direction imaginable. Having got a little carried away with the G&Ts the night before, I arrived to the class with my head already spinning, and ten minutes in I was forced to remember what I’d sworn to forget: the kebab I had consumed in the early hours of the morning was threatening to make a rogue reappearance.

Noticing that I had turned a shade of green, our coach took the opportune moment to suggest I let someone else have their turn while he explained to me the secrets of avoiding unwelcome ‘giddy spells’ Thinking it best not to mention that takeaway binges probably aren’t top of the list, I listened attentively. On my next turn, I even pulled off a ‘seat drop’; as one of those ladies who likes the extra cream with their pudding, I had no trouble allowing the weight of my rear end to propel me downwards. After a few attempts I had the move nailed, and the coach looked reasonably impressed.

Now it was time to move on to more ambitious territory. A ‘front drop’ was proffered, but, given my rather delicate state, I asked whether there might be something a little less tough on the tummy. We settled on a ‘back drop’ instead: all I needed to do was jump as high as possible then lean my shoulders back, and I would float gently down to a lying position on the bed. Or something like that.

It might sound crazy, but soon I was actually beginning to enjoy the feeling of flying up and falling back down, only to spring back and repeat it all over again. With each turn I dared bounce that little bit harder, shoot my arms that little bit higher, fall back that little bit further…

Then something staggering happened. The coach told me to repeat exactly the same move, only lean backwards a bit more. Taking him at his word, I bounced back up and, by some flabbergasting gravitational feat, spun all the way around to land on my feet again. I couldn’t tell you how on earth it happened, but I somehow did a somersault. My fellow flyers (one of whom studies quantum mechanics) could probably explain the ins and outs of the gravitational forces that spun me round, but I’d rather not know, lest it lose its magic. Once I’ve retrieved my stomach from the ceiling and the room has stopped spinning, I can’t wait to make the magic happen again.

Put A Soc In It!: Water Polo

My latest instalment! Can be read on the Varsity website here.

I love Sundays. Given the chaotic pace of life at Cambridge, I afford myself the luxury of taking the day at a blissfully slow pace: a long lie-in, catching up on trashy TV, reading the newspapers, enjoying a relaxed roast dinner.

Not so, it seems, for members of the University Water Polo Squad, who sacrifice these
pleasures in favour of a morning of training in the swimming pool. Dragging myself out of bed and lamenting the omnipresence of closed curtains in the rooms of my fellow students, I prepared myself to join in their exploits last weekend.

Things didn’t get off to a winning start. Having not swum since my secondary school days (I prefer to lounge poolside, darling), I had entirely overlooked my lack of suitable attire for pool-based activities. I asked my neighbour’s impartial advice as to whether I could just about get away with one of my less skimpy ensembles, but the response being negative, I was forced to forgo breakfast and make a last-minute dash to John Lewis to scour its swimwear section for something more appropriate. I left the store with a hideously unflattering but positively practical costume, and cycled like the clappers to the sports centre.

I arrived in the nick of time, already red-faced and sweaty, only to discover that today the Varsity team trials were taking place. The captain, seeing the look of horror on my face, reassured me that there would be no pressure and we would take things easy. “Just twenty or so lengths to start off with, girls – no biggie,” she beamed. Half-way through my first, I was ready to faint with hunger, my legs had turned to jelly, and I had unintentionally swallowed copious amounts of water. With much coughing and spluttering, I reverted to doggy paddle. “Don’t worry – your technique’s great!” she reassured me, as I huffed and puffed my way to the shallow end. “It takes a while to get back into the swing of things – you should have seen me when I got back to training after the vac!” Something tells me she was anything but the pathetic paddler I was, longing for the comfort of my floats, woggles and – dare I say it? – armbands.

You see, water polo is played in deep water, and, to add further complication to matters,
involves a very specific style of treading water called ‘egg-beater’, the ins and outs of which got me thoroughly scrambled. Keeping afloat is only part of the battle – there are various manoeuvres, passes, catches and goals to execute, as well as warding off opponents’ attempts to ‘dunk’ you (thankfully, existing team members promised not to submit me to that treatment just yet, though I was given a bonnet with some rather hefty ear protectors to wear in case of any rough play…).

I never thought I would last the whole session, let alone see myself playing a game at the
end of it, but somehow the team’s infectious enthusiasm won me over. My legs might have only been capable of a gentle swish rather than the mighty egg-beating of my teammates, but I managed a couple of passes and even a shot on goal (easily saved, but, as the perpetually smiley captain pointed out, “at least it was on target!”). I returned home with a runny nose, dripping hair and bloodshot eyes, and savoured every last morsel of my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. As my friends showed up in hall bleary-eyed, I felt a sneaky sense of pride for having spent my morning engaging in such hard-wearing activity whilst they slept off last night’s beers. Though next time, I won’t skip the Weetabix beforehand.

Put A Soc In It!: Lindy Hopping

It's the start of a new academic year, and I'll be writing a weekly blog for Varsity about my various undertakings with different societies in Cambridge. Here's the first instalment (or you can view it online):

New year, new start. Beginning term at Cambridge brings with it a fresh set of resolutions: no more late night takeaway binges, changing the sheets at least every other week, finding a new hobby. Off we trot to the Freshers’ Fair, where we are lured by the enticing array of free chocolates and the endearing eagerness of society representatives, only to return to an inbox filled with details of the next yacht expedition, cheese tasting, or Warhammer tournament.

As an arts student, my technical ineptitude has meant that for the first two years of my degree I still haven’t figured out how to unsubscribe from such emails. Each term, the regular stream of updates from the multitude of societies our University has to offer only served to continually remind me of my inadequacy. So this year, I have resolved to make a real effort and have a go at some of the more under-the-radar activities offered by societies at Cambridge. Provided I don’t unearth hidden talents for which the pursuit allows little time for anything but practice, I’ve agreed to write a blog of my various experiences for Varsity. Who knows, in a few weeks’ time you might well be reading the words of a burgeoning champion pole-vaulter.

My mission began with an evening spent in the company of Cambridge’s Lindy Hoppers, involving an hour-long class followed by an evening of ‘social dancing’, accompanied by a live band. Fortunately the class caters to beginners’ needs, and the emphasis tended more towards having fun than perfecting the steps (or so one of my partners told me, perhaps to make me feel better about my rather haphazard footwork). Fortunately we changed partners regularly, so I didn’t have to feel too bad about my lack of co-ordination impeding the more ambitious dancers in the bunch. It did make for somewhat clammy hand-holds though, which I could have done without when it was my turn to dance with a very cute guy with flippy hair…

Admittedly, I didn’t exactly pick up the moves at lightning speed. In fact, I trod on the aforementioned guy’s toes a number of times, although on the rare occasion that I looked up from my somewhat unsteady feet he seemed to be smiling – and I’d like to think it wasn’t just a sympathetic gesture. In fact, while my technical dancing ability might have been a little lacking, I feel I certainly excelled at the ‘social dancing’ aspect of the evening. The class took place at a pub, and after a couple of pints to calm the nerves I was throwing some absolute killer moves. Flippy hair hottie even asked if I would be coming back next week, so I must have made some sort of impression.

If I were to dismiss the attraction of my fellow Hoppers, however, I’ll confess that I doubt a career in Lindy Hopping is my calling – somehow my knees don’t quite have the buoyancy required for all the bouncing, and my feet just don’t do what I want them to. But I had a good laugh, met some fun people, and would recommend it to anyone who wants to have a bit of a boogie in a non-judgmental, friendly atmosphere. What with the partner changes, live band, and dance moves, it could be an interesting alternative to your standard swap night out. One thing’s for sure: despite all the dance steps, it was a lot less sweaty than most nightclubs in Cambridge.

What I owe EUYO

Touring with the European Union Youth Orchestra this summer taught me some valuable lessons:  Sleep is a precious thing. Gin is an even more precious thing. And above all, Europe’s young musicians are one of the most precious things possessed by our continent.
 

EUYO is an organisation like no other. It brings together the finest young musicians of the EU’s 27 member states and offers them the opportunity of living and working together whilst giving concerts across Europe. The range of cultures, backgrounds and circumstances is vast – and yet when they play together, their harmony is magical.

 

 

As intern, my role was to help ensure that this well-oiled vessel ran as smoothly as possible. Considering the diversity of the orchestra, this is no mean feat. At dinnertime, the Italians arrive late, the French complain about the quality of the food, the Spanish complain that there is no wine to accompany the food, and the Irish have probably gone straight to the pub and won’t show up at all. One must make sure that the Dutch clarinettist who is allergic to broccoli, haddock and kiwi fruit has been catered for, and that the brass section does not commandeer all the sausages before the rest of the orchestra has had its share. The kitchen staff protest that our musicians are helping themselves to the salad buffet, which is strictly for other hotel guests only. As I attempt to ward off the sneaky pickers, a Portuguese trombone player turns an alarming shade of puce and his face begins to swell up – his acute macadamia nut allergy has been overlooked, and he requires urgent medical attention.

Culinary crises are just the tip of the iceberg: having spent hours drawing up rooming lists for each of the numerous hotels where the orchestra stays during the tour, a French flautist decides that, after a week together, he cannot tolerate the sleep-walking of his Bulgarian bassoonist roommate and asks to change, whilst a Hungarian trumpeter asks if his new-found love interest, a Swedish violinist, might be able to share his room. A few days later, the aforementioned Swede enters the office in tears – it transpires that our Hungarian hunk has moved on to a Czech cellist...

 

 

It’s not just the orchestra members who present such challenges. The Romanian ambassador shows up unannounced at a concert and expects tickets not only for himself, but also for his twenty-strong entourage – the seating plan must be rapidly reworked. Then the Belgian consul arrives, and refuses to sit anywhere near the Austrian party, on account of an obscure affair which took place several years ago. No questions are asked; the seating plan is frantically scrubbed out once again, and fresh efforts made to accommodate the change of circumstances. All of a sudden there’s an almighty commotion – the Queen has arrived, and the oboist who was due to greet her has lost his reeds, so a replacement must be found immediately. Ah, and Her Majesty doesn’t get along so well with the Finnish ambassador, so can this also be factored into the seating arrangements? And you haven’t forgotten that the Minister for Foreign Affairs will be arriving ten minutes late? Good. Surely that can’t have been the five minute bell? Why are we flying the Hungarian flag at a concert in Italy? Are we even in Italy? Or was that yesterday’s concert? Keep calm, breathe, and if you can’t smile then at least show your teeth. The show must go on.

And go on it does – invariably to rapturous applause and rave reviews. Considering the obstacles that the orchestra must overcome in order to arrange, fund, and ultimately perform at concerts, it pulls it off sensationally well. To organise the concert, considerable trust must be placed in the hands of agents whose limited English is cause for slight concern (“You want double bass? Send me photo, I make happen”). Finding the money to finance the orchestra demands a delicate balance between relentlessness and charm (“Monsieur Le Benefacteur, we are delighted to present you with a bow tie styled in the design of the EU flag, to remind you of your ongoing commitment to supporting the orchestra…”). As for the logistics of transporting 130 musicians and their instruments across Europe, I have never known walkie-talkie communication between buses on an Autobahn to be so slick (“Come in Bus 4? Bus 4, are you aware that a music stand is balancing precariously on the roof of your vehicle?”) The staff work tirelessly to ensure that the tour runs as smoothly as possible, and I have enormous respect for them all.

 

 

As for the players, quite apart from their unparalleled musical talent, EUYO could not be so remarkable without their co-operation and apparently limitless enthusiasm. After three consecutive days of 7am bus loads, someone remembers that a certain Estonian percussionist was last seen skinny dipping at sunrise, so his colleagues use their initiative to embark on a search party to retrieve him (happily he was found, although his trousers are yet to be recovered). A Slovenian horn player leaves his concert dress behind at a hotel, and is rescued by a benevolent but broad Belgian trombone player who can lend his suit and shoes during the pieces in which he does not play (even if they are twice his size). Admittedly, there was the one occasion when it was realised that a Latvian tuba player was last seen in the toilets at a service station 100km ago, as well as the unlucky incident of the horn section’s spirited practising setting off the alarms of a nearby bank, and the unfortunate timing of a local firework extravaganza coinciding with an outdoor chamber concert, but on such a long, expansive tour, it would be ridiculous to expect everything to run without a glitch.

Indeed, in my opinion, the orchestra’s solidarity during these moments of difficulty is what makes EUYO truly exceptional. I can’t pretend that I was the model intern either – attempting to garner half an hour’s sleep before my final 5.30am departure very nearly resulted in a missed flight home. I’d like to think that it wasn’t my own mistake, but rather karma telling me how much I’d miss the hustle and bustle of tour. When I got home, I slept for about a week, then woke up ready for another 7am departure with a bus full of sleepy musicians. At least they snore in tune.

somewhere over the rainbow

Yesterday I did a ten-hour round trip from Bolzano to Munich to collect the founder of the EUYO from the airport. On the way back we met a storm - and then this spectacular double rainbow.

bowled over by bolzano

I must admit, I was dreading my journey to Bolzano. With an 8am plane to catch, followed by a bus and then numerous hours sat on a train, I had resolved to sleep through the struggle. My attention was soon diverted, however, by a magnificent sight:  vineyards. Miles upon miles of the things. They surrounded me on both sides of the train, and sprawled right the way across to the Alps. As I contemplated the weeks of wine-filled merriment that lay ahead, suddenly I didn’t seem so tired anymore…

The prospect of a bountiful stay didn’t end there. When we arrived at the hotel, another member of staff said, “I need a spritz.” I suggested we met back in reception after a quick shower, and my ignorance was promptly set straight. Here, a spritz has nothing to do with freshening up. Rather, a spritz is a concoction of Aperol, Prosecco and soda water, garish orange in colour and wonderfully easy to drink. The shower could certainly wait; this was heaven.

Piazza Walther: the perfect Spritz-sipping spot

And it didn’t stop there. Dinner was a luscious spread of tomato-laden bruschetta, monstrous mounds of buffalo mozzarella, perfectly sweet melon and parma ham, and spaghetti with seafood (or rather seafood with spaghetti, given the amount of critters gracing my plate). When I asked for parmesan to accompany the spaghetti, I was reprimanded by my waiter, who firmly contested that I eat it without. He was absolutely right. I struggled to suppress gasps of glee at every bite. Rolling into bed, I made a mental note to pace myself – I have six weeks of such meals ahead – and blissfully nodded off.

The following morning, before I had time to remember this intended self-control, I had somehow managed to pile my plate high with Apfelstrudel, Sachertorte, plum cakes, and mounds of fresh berries. A ridiculously rich chocolate concoction also appeared to have found its way into my cup. Rather than dwell on this mysterious appearance, I gave in. I couldn’t let such delicious treats go to waste now, could I?

Remembering that I risked looking like the plump, juicy tomatoes I was gorging on (not to mention the 35-degree heat outside), I resolved to walk off the indulgence. Bolzano is a charming, compact town, filled with cobbled lanes lined with alfresco cafes, individual boutiques and market stalls – as well as plenty of gelaterias and pasticcherias that threatened to thwart my virtuous efforts. A considerable amount of personal strength was required to overcome to urge to purchase basketfuls of pretty chocolates, bags of dried fruit and nuts, and even a cake made of gummy bears. Fortunately, I managed to distract myself momentarily with quirky hat and shoe displays and a boutique selling beautiful traditional Dirndln.

Market stalls, pretty cafes and boutiques

Gummi bear cakes, huge chocolate shops, Bolzano's Hotel Sacher outpost, inviting assortments of cakes...

Another gratuitous observation provided the perfect excuse I needed to carry on chowing down cakes, cannoli and other confections – Bolzano is a town beloved by bikers. Tomorrow I’m going to collect one to hire and, hopefully, burn off some bruschetta whilst exploring some more. But in the meantime, I’ve got a spaghetti supper awaiting me downstairs…