Oh, and if you’re thinking of heading to Kefalonia any time soon, you might find it interesting too…

Day One

Fear of missing a flight isn’t something I’ve experienced before. At least not until yesterday, the day we departed for the Greek island of Kefalonia.

Having noted that our flight was delayed for a couple of hours, we naturally headed for the nearest airport ‘pub’; a Wetherspoons so cramped it resembled a tightly packed tin of sweaty, stressed sardines.

After a much needed jar, we headed out into the departure lounge, only to spot on one of the plasma screens that the gate for our flight was closing. A good forty minutes before we were expecting it to.

Cue lots of swearing, running and sloshing of freshly settled beer in one’s stomach.

Of course, we hadn’t actually missed the flight. Due to computer programming presumably knocked out by chimps, Gatwick’s flight announcement system and it’s inability to think for itself was entirely to blame.

Shift forward 24 hours and I sit writing this, in what has to be the most stunning holiday abode I’ve ever shacked up in.

Resembling something out of an episode of MTV’s Cribs, it is far beyond anything we expected. High ceilings, three massive en suite bedrooms and a sprawling kitchen/diner/lounge are surrounded by a perfect-sized pool, Greek-tiled courtyard and a gaping view of endless sea. Look to the left, and you can just see the edge of mainland Greece. To your right, a faint outline of Zante.

Lindsey and myself have been to Kefalonia four times, and it’s great to see our family’s initial reactions to what is an amazing, magical island. And we’ve not even started yet.

We’ve done bugger all today. Just knowing that my usual task list of calling unhappy customers, replying to convoluted, dreary emails and dealing with office politics has been replaced with a) deciding which side of the pool to jump into and b) which taverna to hit first later, has been enough to make day one perfect.

There’s nothing quite like getting away from the daily grind and the poorly run country we’ve left behind already seems a very, very long way away.

Tomorrow, we hit Sami, Fiskardo, Assos and the stunning Mirtos Beach.

Day Two

The couple sat, as many do while on holiday, in complete silence. Having clearly exhausted all possible meaningful conversation during countless years of marriage, they continued to live out their dreary lives one silent meal at a time. Only, this particular meal didn’t get eaten.

Having been served wine and food in good time by the usually leisurely Greek staff, they were clearly struggling to find something that would break the deathly, cavernous silence reverberating around their sun-drenched, leathery heads.

Still avoiding the very real prospect of talking to each other, they decided to complain about the napkins.

I can’t quite recall the exact details of the complaint, but it was more boring than an evening out with Lewis Hamilton and more pointless than Paris Hilton.

And complain they did. Right to the point where they up and left, paying for the wine they hadn’t touched. Mugging off no one but themselves, they stormed out of the restaurant, having left a somewhat perplexed waitress with a healthy tip and a table full of food and drink which could quite easily be re-served.

On an adjacent table, we had just enjoyed a fanastic meal of fish, bread (lots of it) and the infinitely drinkable Mythos beer. The chosen location for our first meal out was Penelope’s, a built-for-purpose boat restaurant nestled somewhat daintily on the coastal road’s edge. This had followed a long 200km day, which took in sights from Sami, famed for it’s starring role as a scene setter in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Fiskardo, favoured by the rich and famous (and offering some stunning little restaurants dock-side) – Assos, our dream holiday apartment location and, last but not least, Mirtos beach.

Located west of the island, it sits proudly among the top ten beaches in the world and is one you will have seen yourself if you have studied any Greek holiday literature.

While my girlfriend and I are very familiar with this place (how blase does that sound??), it was fantastic to be able to share the breathtaking vistas, creamy-blue, almost ethereal ocean and thunderous waves with the family. It was just a slight shame that the place is so busy this time of the year (late August). I would certainly recommend visiting outside of the peak season (and not just for the lack of kids).

Day Four

Not the most complete of holiday diaries, this (day three did happen, I promise) but, then, I am on holiday and have spent far too much time doing nothing to have had chance to stop doing nothing and write.

Around four or five weeks ago, I made the most nerve racking phone call I’ve ever had to make. Choosing a Wednesday lunchtime dog walk as the time and venue for my important call, I gingerly tapped the mobile number of my girlfriend’s dad on my iPhone.

It rang for what felt like forever. So long, in fact, that I imagined him diverting me to voicemail, or missing the call entirely, in which case I’d have to go through this buttock-clenchingly stressful routine all over again. I’d made the decision to call now, the words I had ready – fervently practiced for weeks beforehand – were waiting on the tip of my tongue, huddled together, doing their level best not to jump out all at once and crash onto the pavement below in a large, convoluted pile of incoherence.

Paul answered. And I instantly forgot every single line I had prepared. All the words scurried to the back of my throat, glanced regretfully back and decided it safer to jump back into the far reaches of my brain.

I genuinely can’t remember what I said, but I definitely did the important bit; I asked if I could marry his daughter.

He agreed this was a good idea, particularly after nine years.

And so it was yesterday, 19th August 2010 that I led my somewhat bemused girlfriend onto the quietest part of Skala beach I could find and popped the question, presenting the ring I had spent days trying to hide.

She complained initially, as I led her somewhat haphazardly over rocks, seaweed, broken pieces of wood and dead crabs. Her shoes, I was informed, were not made for such off-roading. Plus, we were suddenly heading inexplicably out towards the ocean. This was strange, and not the normal direction for dinner.

As a banana boat swooshed inconveniently across the beautiful Ionian sea leaving a trail of screams and laughs in its wake, I leant on one knee, said none of the things I’d rehearsed, Lindsey said ‘yes’ and we both began to sweat uncontrollably.

It’s taken nine years to get to this stage of our relationship, a fact which many friends and family have taken great pleasure in reminding me of at any given opportunity. What I hadn’t expected was the sheer joy we both experienced last night, and continue to as I type now. After such a length of time in each other’s company, and having lived together for much of it, I could be forgiven for believing that what I was doing might simply result in more of a formality than anything else. It didn’t. It felt genuinely euphoric; a feeling that was only lifted further when we started to inform everyone. Tears, phone calls and text messages flowed all evening.

I had to pull myself together.

Aside from that pretty momentous moment, we also enjoyed a spot of doughnut riding earlier in the day. This doesn’t, as the name suggests, involve sitting on a dough-based treat equipped with wheels, but instead a similarly shaped inflatable which is pulled – via a very ropey bit of rope – at breakneck speed along the sea by a speedboat. At the helm of the boat was a fat, brown Greek man who delighted in suggesting we all ‘stop holding on so tight’ and telling us they only have ‘very little sharks’.

Mat fell off twice. I held on and felt very manly for a good ten minutes.

If I could compare it to anything, imagine being pulled along the M1 by a supercar with only your pants separating your posterior from the tarmac. It was that comfortable.

Exhilarating, breathtaking and nerve racking. Just like asking your girlfriend to marry you.

Day Eight

A cross between Captain Birdseye and Anthony Worrall Thompson, Captain Makis shielded his eyes from the blistering Greek sun and surveyed my fiance’s stomach (not as punch-inducing an event as it may sound).

“You too skinny!” He said, as he patted his rounded, dark brown stomach. “You see my belly? It is over my legs. Yours is in line. You must eat more food.”

He turned to me and tapped my somewhat less rounded and decidedly paler stomach.

“You see? His belly is over his legs also.” He swung an arm round my shoulder. “We are both healthy. Eat some more food.”

In the background, the theme tune to Hawaii 5 0 bellowed out from his boat’s PA, casting a surreal school disco ambiance over the beach BBQ we were attending on Xi beach, Lixouri.

I’m not usually one for coach trips. Having to share space and possibly even conversation with members of the general public while on holiday (actually, at any time) is as much a prospect of fun as being dragged along the M1 face first via my front teeth.

As it turned out, the day trip to the western tip of Kefalonia was simply brilliant. Joining Captain Makis and around seventy other holidaymakers on his glass bottomed boat, we took in sights impossible to reach without sea transport. Brilliant white, empty sandy beaches, coral reefs and crystal clear sea we were encouraged to jump into and explore.

Makis’ crew were ever helpful. One in particular, who looked like he belonged on the set of Home and Away (yet in fact came from Doncaster) was eager to point out just what an incredible island Kefalonia is via some genuinely interesting facts. Did you know there is a type of shark which, if it strays above it’s minimum level of depth, explodes? No, I didn’t either. I’m not even that bothered if he made it up. How cool.

Ending up on Xi beach, Makis threw the mother of all BBQs with some of the most delicious pork kebabs and greek salad I’ve ever tasted. Throw in free wine and bread soaked in something so tasty I’d happily drown in it, and we were all in agreement that day eight was a good day.

I’m also not the type of person to engage in mud baths. Unless purely by accident. Yet on this trip, I did. Willingly. Looking something like a hairy, discoloured Avatar, I waited for the cement to harden and, giving not a second thought to my fading masculinity, brushed it off (‘self-exfoliating’, whatever that means), waiting for ‘skin like a baby bum’ to appear, as Makis had promised. This didn’t happen, but it was an unexpected laugh, nonetheless.

The day – if not holiday – was completely topped off on the way back to the port of Agostoli, however.

One of the main attractions of the trip we were on was the promise of dolphins following the boat. And, just as we thought they’d decided to ignore us, the ship’s rasping horn let rip. Sounding just like that of a World War II air raid siren, it was a signal that the guy at the boat’s controls had spotted dolphins.

At first, fumbling for my iPhone while simultaneously realising it could very much end up wet and unretrievable and consequently returning it back into the safety of my rucksack, I missed the event entirely.

Consoling myself with the fact that it would likely be a tricky encounter to capture on camera, I forgot the phone and rushed to the side of the boat. Eventually, persistence and a much skilled bit of 360-degree circling by said boatman, paid off. We saw several dolphins arcing gracefully into the open. Almost in slow motion, their fins cut a slice through the warm Ionian air and slipped back into natural habitat. One or two even came within feet of the boat, proudly showing off their glistening skin to the gawping onlookers.

Even with the event being somewhat inappropriately soundtracked by an impossibly awful karaoke rendition of ‘Come On Eileen’ (which the wailing participant had ingeniously ad-libbed into ‘Come On Dol-phins’) I’m neither too manly nor too proud to admit that it presented me with a lump in my throat and shivers down my neck. Natural beauty is something I rarely come across in the litter and dog shit-strewn streets of Semilong, Northampton, and the sight of these magnificent, intelligent, free creatures responding to our call was simply majestic. More moving than any piece of film, music or literature I’ve ever come across. If you get chance to see them in their natural home, grab it, no matter what the cost is.

Day Nine

The red faced Brit surveyed The Captain Table’s outside menu as a waiter approached, offering the decidedly fed up-looking family a table at the attractive Greek restaurant.

“Good evening, sir. How are you?”

The man, still anxiously scouring the menu, looked up. “I fancy a curry, mate.”

Had I been the waiter in question, I would quite happily have told this ignorant fat chav to return from whence he came and book a table at Balti Towers (albeit spelt p l e a s e f u c k o f f). Yet, as polite as always, this particular waiter actually managed to coax them into what is quite clearly a seafood restaurant. In Greece.

Why people come on holiday looking for exact replicas of their home town experience is beyond me. It seems more pointless than Phil Collins admitting that, actually, he has always been a bit of a twat.

Several years ago we spent a week in Salou, Spain, which proudly housed an exact replica of a working men’s club on its main strip. Complete with wood panelled walls, thick acrid smoke choked out from those inhabiting it and episodes of Only Fools And Horses playing on loop, it was, without doubt, the last thing you would ever want to come across in England, let alone whilst on holiday. Yet, it was packed. Strange. And somewhat embarrassing.

Happily, Kefalonia is largely scarce on such monstrosities (if you exclude the more commercial Lassi). It is also refreshing to see not a single franchise or big name brand anywhere. You can drive the length of this island, explore every nook and cranny and you won’t find a single McDonalds, Starbucks or Crispy Creme outlet. It is genuinely liberating and makes you realise how much soulless fluff is rammed down our throats and relied upon in our own media-endorsed, materialistic lives.

Take the way of life here. Driving back from the capital, Argostoli, last night, we cruised through numerous little villages. Each one dimly lit by under invested street lighting, they looked simple, at peace and, above all, happy. It was approaching 11pm and on nearly every available roadside bench sat old folk; each one enjoying the coolness afforded by the darkness and discussing anything but the use of Auto-Tune on the new series of the X Factor.

I also have a sneaking suspicion they’re simply waiting to see at least one tourist-driven hire car plunge helplessly off one of the many barrier-less cliff faces. But, if it was Dave Curry, who wouldn’t?

Day Ten

“A modern day equivalent would be Russell Brand,” explained my mum, still smiling uncontrollably as she surveyed the statue of famous poet Lord Byron in front of her. “He’d quite happily hump anything.”

Having got lost more times than I care to mention, we had eventually found our way into the peaceful town of Mataxata, nestled in the southern region of the island, away from the coast and the (admittedly quiet) ‘main’ road.

I’m not much up on Byron, to be honest, but I know my mum has taught his work for years and was absolutely thrilled to find one of the many greek paradises he called home during an all too short life.

The massive earthquake of 1953 obliterated most of the island and, unfortunately, his residence, but a statue has been raised by the Greeks in honour of a man who clearly fell in love with the place. A white house sits on the original grounds of his home, providing a real sense and focal point for his time there, which would have sadly been lacking if Mother Nature had deterred the inhabitants of Kefalonia (and us Brits, as it was us who stepped in to help rebuild the place).

You can see why he shacked up here. Next to his house is a stunning view across the towns below and, beyond, the glistening sea. You’re not short on inspiration in somewhere as pretty as Metaxata.

A fantastic meal at the appropriately named Byron Restaurant provided nostalgia for Lindsey and I who had visited that very eatery and nearby town of Lakithra a few years earlier. It also capped off a satisfying day of discovery and gleaming satisfaction for my mum.

Day Eleven

As the coach pulled off, the Spanish couple in front of us nervously surveyed their passengers. Something had happened which they clearly hadn’t expected; the tour guide had begun her seemingly unrehearsed diatribe about Ithaca, today’s idyllic location.

Turning to Lindsey, the long haired guy enquired: “Is this not public bus?”

Rather than break the news that they had inadvertently joined a paid-for tour gently, Lindsey consoled them by bursting into laughter. The couple soon joined her before whispering frantically to each other, no doubt trying to work out how to escape.

Moments earlier, we’d disembarked a ferry which had taken us the short distance from Kefalonia to it’s sister island. As ever, the Greeks didn’t fail in entertaining us with a chaotic, yet somehow organised ushering of cars, coaches, motorbikes and civilians from the boat.

In the UK, the staff would still be completing risk assessment forms, ticking boxes and telling people exactly what they could and couldn’t do. Not so, here. With little regard for anyone’s life, overloaded trucks were floored off the boat and up the steep hairpin bends they were instantly greeted with. Official-looking staff blew whistles for no apparent reason, waved hands and shouted at the lethal lumps of metal flying out of the cargo deck of the ship. I can’t remember them paying a second’s thought to us, but, with clever use of our brains, we worked out that we could simply walk off and onto the semi-safety of the roadside. I say road … more of a rally course.

I love this place for its complete lack of rules, regulations and health and safety nets. Our government have crippled our country and made even the most basic of tasks ball-breakerinly frustrating affairs (I’m reliably told there is even a risk assessment form for sending a fax…). Here, they tarmac only one side of the road (and only drive on that bit … consider that for a moment), provide no warning of forthcoming roadworks, smoke at petrol stations and even, shock horror, don’t bother with speed cameras or the utterly pointless average speed limit. As a result, there are very few accidents here and everyone drives around with a smile on their face.

Back to Ithaca, which is stunning and refreshingly different to Kefalonia. I’ll let you read up on it, but suffice to say, the story of Odysseus and his frisky missus will give you a good idea of the somewhat embellished legends surrounding it.

Two things stood out for me (apart from the jaw dropping scenery which, after a while, you become sadly accustomed to). Firstly, during a short stop in the capital, Vathi, we visited a few quaint little shops. In one, I found a mandolin. Beautifully constructed and tight as a drum, it hung from one of the shelves, devoid of a price tag. Assuming this little gem could be had for at least one of the notes nestled in my wallet, we asked the shop keeper how much it was.

“Two-hundred and fifty euros,” she said. Actually, she laughed first, at which point I should have probably said, “Ah, don’t worry.”

I didn’t buy it.

Secondly, the best paper towel dispenser I’ve ever come across. Anyone who has drooled over the simple yet strangely addictive nature of the Dyson Airblade will know why I’m about to get so wet-knickered about this.

Wave your hand across it and paper comes out. Seriously. No touching. Just waving. And it responds. It’s like it knows what you’re thinking. I want one at home, for it would make every toilet trip something of absolute, unbridled joy.

The downside of this trip? The depressing discovery of ‘Villa Newcastle’ in the ex-pat inhabited village of Lefki. Why can’t we just bloody let things be?

I’ll finish on a short message left by Greek freedom fighters during one of the island’s many wars. I can’t remember the full story behind it, but I like it. Once again, I’ll let you look it up:

“Every step of our lives is an heroic moment. Every fathom of sea a thousand drops of blood.”

Day Thirteen

“Is that an IP3?” Asked my new friend who Mat had moments earlier pointed out looked very much like Sean Connery in The Rock.

He was pointing at my iPhone. Putting two and two together, I worked out what he meant. Not wishing to correct him too obviously, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.

“No, it’s an iPhone 4. I used to have an iPhone 3G, though.”

That’ll work, I thought. He’ll be quietly thankful that I’ve subtly pointed out his inaccurate product naming and he will continue the conversation referring to Apple’s most famous device correctly.

“Ah. Right.” He sat down in the seat next to me. “So would you recommend getting an IP3, then?”

Perhaps he wasn’t paying me his full attention. The bar was busy. I’ll try again.

“Yes, they’re great phones, iPhones. I love my iPhone 4, but the iPhone 3G I had before it was just as good an iPhone.”

He nodded, stroking his Dulux white beard.

“I’ve been offered an IP3 for £100. Think that’s a good deal?”

Perhaps he was referring to something different. Perhaps I had the wrong end of the stick here. Maybe an IP3 is some new fangled piece of technology I’ve never heard of. Perhaps he is confused as to why I keep talking about iPhones. If that’s the case, I have no idea whether or not £100 is a good deal. I could cost him here. This was turning into a disaster. An expensive disaster.

“Is that a sixteen or thirty-two megabyte IP3?” He continued, thankfully oblivious to the fact I hadn’t answered his previous question.

“Thirty-two. It’s a thirty-two gigabyte iPhone 4.” As he definitely wouldn’t have listened to any of that, I didn’t waste time emphasising ‘gigabyte’.

He smiled. “I think I’ll get that IP3, then. Thanks for your help. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

No we won’t, I thought as he stood up and walked towards the door. I’m flying home tomorrow.

A fitting end to our holiday was held at Pelagos Bay’s weekly BBQ. At the helm, Billy, who had entertained Lindsey and I eighteen months ago and was the very reason we had chosen to bring the family along this time. Special mention must also go to barman Yannis who is, without doubt the happiest – and often most drunk – barman I’ve ever come across. The fact that both he and Billy recognised us after such a long time was amazing. I’m not that interesting and they play host to hundreds of holiday makers every season. That’s service we really could learn from in the UK.

If there’s anywhere you’re going to experience ‘meat sweats’ its at Billy’s Greek BBQ. Pork kebabs, lamb kebabs, chicken, sausage, tzatziki , Greek salad, cous cous and all manner of bread is served. And re-served. And re-served again. It would be easy to resist if it wasn’t so tasty. England is going to taste decidedly bland on our return…

Greek dancing, bingo and a quiz followed. An odd mix (and my subsequent enjoyment of it somewhat at odds with my previous complaints about Brit-friendly holiday activities), but a great end to what has been an absolutely fantastic holiday. One I simply can’t thank my parents enough for.

As I write, we’ve just left the villa for its next lucky inhabitants and now sit in a hotel pool bar waiting to head back to the airport later this afternoon. For the first time in two weeks, scattered clouds are occasionally obscuring the sun. While the heat is as blistering as ever, the sudden appearance of cloud and a hotel so quiet it could be our own seem to be signalling our exit from Kefalonia.

And I get to see my dog again.

Image by Catyb. via Flickr

As I type, I’m on a kid-infested flight returning from a two week holiday.

I require three things while away (I’ve omitted several ‘givens’): music, camera, entertainment.

Previously, this involved carting around about three-hundred separate gadgets, each of which would end up either coated in sand, broken or lost.

During my time in Kefalonia, however, I’ve made an unexpected decision to sell my SLR camera on my return. Not because I found a better one, or because I have to pay for a costly foreign medical bill, but because I fell, hook, line and sinker for my iPhone 4′s camera. This was unexpected.

Apple chief, Steve Jobs, describes it as a ‘camera system’, casually brushing off any notion that more pixels equals better pictures in typical Apple fashion; indiscriminately and arrogantly with a heavy dusting of patronisation for good measure.

Like many people, I laughed at yet another over zealous semi-branding of centuries-old technology, courtesy of the man who has made the practice something of an art form.

It turns out, however, that the turtle necked one is absolutely correct. The iPhone 4 produces stunning still pictures.

Much is made of them via the phone’s incredible Retina Display (another needless piece of branding), yet they shine even when transferred to any other device.

The same could not be said for my old 3G. That would only produce a half-decent shot when presented with studio-like conditions. Attempting to take photos anywhere else, i.e. houses, parks, pubs, hotels, theme parks or, well, anywhere, produced the kind of grainy, dull pictures associated with disposable cameras.

iPhone 4 rarely fails to adjust itself correctly to prevailing conditions and even manages to adjust depth of field without you having to lift a finger (I’ve never seen convincing depth of field on point-and-shoot cameras, let alone mobile phones).

Video, too is perfectly useable. It’s 720p HD and, while it occasionally suffers from some judder on panning shots, it perfectly captured every moment I asked it to and, more importantly, didn’t make me look like a Handicam-wielding burk.

This got me thinking. Why do I need an SLR which, admittedly, has seen very sparing use since I bought in several years ago. Why lug something around which weighs the same as Eamon Holmes and is about as attractive? It simply isn’t required anymore. Photos are for remembering and sharing. If they look good as your desktop wallpaper, that’s a bonus.

My iPhone is my iPod. It plays games. I can watch movies and TV on it. Show me a better device which does all this and still fits in your pocket. You’ll struggle, before you start looking…

The only thing which did slightly disappoint while away was my iPad. It beats the iPhone hands down as a media player for the flight, and is handy once again to watch movies on in bed (plus the battery is just jaw dropping), but I wasn’t once tempted to take it to the poolside or beach to read an iBook. This was partly due to an inherent fear of scratching, smashing or sitting on it, but in reality, you simply can’t sit outside and use this thing for any great length of time. You spend most of the time tutting at your increasing number of chins, which are the only things visible on the screen. I do not want to study my chins while on holiday.

That said, I have just typed out this entire blog on it. Which is nice.

I wanted an iPhone 4 as well, but simply waited two days to get one. No queues, no early mornings and, more importantly, no passersby thinking I was an absolute lunatic.

Ok, not something I experienced directly, but I certainly viewed – and laughed at it – it from afar.

1. He really is thick as two short planks.

And

2. Our beloved England team have reached the end of an era.

The best suggestion I heard following the debacle we were subjected for on Sunday was that Premier League players should be banned from playing at international level. Instead, Championship players would get a chance to grace the world stage. And it makes sense. Not only would they display more passion, they’d be free of the traps bestowed upon our highest-paid stars. Traps of excessive fame and fortune which clearly give them a distorted view of their own footballing ability.

One thing has become abundantly clear over the last fortnight; not a single player in that England squad can ever be described as ‘world class’ ever again.

Take Wayne Rooney, who has unknowingly been poked at with the pointy end of my Tweets and Facebook status updates since the tournament began. He was hailed our talisman and the one player who would finally ignite the ability our team has to bring the World Cup home. An ability which has laid dormant since 1966.

In reality, he cast a lone, despondent shadow across every inch of pitch he covered. Which amounted to quite a lot, if truth be told. He simply kept running the wrong way; back into the congested midfield only to either a) foul someone, b) collide with Gerrard who was doing the exact same thing or c) give the ball away to the opposition.

The rate at which he did the latter was simply staggering.

This is a player who clearly had a big say in which of his team mates made it to South Africa. Walcott didn’t deserve to go but Rooney’s all too obvious reactions to every misplaced cross only served to help Capello make what must have been a difficult decision. I doubt it did Theo’s confidence much good, either.

By comparison, Rooney has played all four of England’s games at a tenth of Walcott’s effort during the qualifying campaign. The young lad who was unfairly taken to the last World Cup must be seething.

I don’t believe it’s the manager’s fault, regardless of some questionable substitutions and an insistence on playing a formation which didn’t lend itself to the players available. He simply seems to be saddled with the same guilt trip this country’s media lavishes on every England manager – whatever you do, don’t drop Wayne.

If we can hope for anything after this mess, its that Capello keeps the job he’s more than capable of fulfilling and becomes the one manager who shuns popular opinion and ditches the divine right. Rooney should play no more than a bit part until he proves he actually wants the caps which have come so easily to him thus far.

And there, in Jobs’ hands, was what looked like a a massive iPod touch. A really big iPhone. Without the phone bit. Or the camera. A huge, gigantic disappointment.

I really wanted one.

To spare my credit card further pain, I spent the next few weeks explaining to everyone how pointless it was. And the device is, on face value, difficult to justify. I have a netbook. I have an iPhone. I have a MacBook Pro. Where would an iPad fit in? No matter how many times Jobs and his cronies banged on about the fun to be had ‘just picking it up off the coffee table to enjoy fantastic email’, I couldn’t think of a legitimate use of this £500 piece of techno eye candy.

Then, a few days after the UK launch, I took the thirty minute journey to PC World in Milton Keynes to have a play with one. Within second of the home screen arranging itself I’d decided I required an iPad. So I bought one.

A few days in, I feel qualified enough to write a few words on Apple’s new baby and I’ll start by reiterating that it really is a luxury device. No one on this planet needs an iPad. Neither will it replace your laptop. The lack of a real keyboard cements that fact.

I’ll start with the screen, which is stunning. There was a whole lot of hokum about the fact it doesn’t possess a true widescreen aspect ratio and the fact that it’s surrounded by a fat black bezel, but as soon as you set your eyes on one, neither of those things matter. It is fabulous. The bezel, in fact, actually makes perfect sense as it gives your thumbs somewhere to rest whilst not obscuring the screen.

Built quality is something else which strikes you; it feels sturdy, immaculately constructed and tough. Granted, I wouldn’t want to drop it, or frisbee it across to someone at the other side of the room, but it does feel like it’ll last. If the iPhone 4 is anything like this, we’re in for a treat.

Apps, while expensive, are impressive and bring to light the benefit of the larger screen, when compared with the iPhone. It’s genuinely very exciting when you consider the kind of apps we’ll see from those clever and friendless enough to develop them. As a part time bedroom music producer, I can’t wait to see how this thing will complement my studio with synth and DAW controller apps.

The keyboard. I hate the iPhone’s keyboard. I’ve found it’s got harder to use the longer I’ve had the phone, regularly hitting incorrect characters or the backspace button. iPad’s keyboard is obviously far bigger which makes it possible to type almost like you can on a ‘real’ keyboard. Not quite though. It’s still prone to errors and the lack of tactile feedback is one of the many reasons it won’t replace your laptop. Indeed, I wrote 50% of this blog on the iPad but had to resort to my MacBook after a while.

Key to understanding and appreciating the iPad is realising that it is simply a device which makes ‘passing the internet around’, checking email, viewing photos and listening to music incredibly simple. The battery is astonishing. Apple quote 10 hours and I don’t doubt that. If anything, it might be a little more. Whatever it is, you can leave this thing anywhere about your house and pick it up when you need it, safe in the knowledge it isn’t going to die on you. Its also on, instantly, therefore you don’t have to wait for the OS to boot up before you check your email.

The lack of Flash? This subject bores me to the core so I won’t labour on it. I’ve hardly noticed it. Although, to be fair, I visit a fairly limited number of websites, most of which don’t include flash content or utilise the HTML5 (something Apple will almost certainly force a web-standard out of). We all know Apple disallow the use of Flash on their mobile devices because they want to protect the App Store, but I really can’t get too excited or angry about it. They were the first to abandon floppy drives, after all…

Should you buy one? In short, only if you can afford it. My house is flooded with technology to the point where I simply don’t have time to use it all. The iPad has, however, made a bit of a mockery of my MacBook when it comes to web browsing and ‘pick up and play-ability’. It’s just incredibly handy to have around.

If you can’t afford it at the moment and need to save, give it a few months and see what apps appear. Maybe even wait until the first hardware revision which should certainly include a camera, at the very least.

I’ll finish with ten of my favourite apps so far:

1. Press Reader – download digital versions of newspapers – thousands are featured from all across the world and prices are reasonable.
2. AccuWeather – pretty and informative weather app.
3. Wikipanion – great Wikipedia app.
4. Eurosport – far better than its iPhone equivalent.
5. RightMove – simply fantastic if you’re a UK resident house hunting/selling
6. Early Edition – great RSS reader which formats RSS feeds in a newspaper-like format.
7. Guardian Eyewitness – features one photo a day taken from professional news photographers. Also offers technical tips on how the shot was taken.
8. WordPress – makes far more sense than the iPhone version and is a masterclass of simple design.
9. Korg Electribe – iPad version of a classic groovebox. Much fun.
10. IMDb – brilliant for film information and trailers.

They’ve helped immensely and I’d recommend the site to any producers similarly struggling with sources of inspiration.

Anyway, here’s what happened when Jay Z met a lesser known Stevie Wonder track:

Logic's Compressor

Few electronic music genres fail to benefit from the pumping, sucking sound of side chain compression, yet it is one of those effects which many new producers struggle to get to grips with – not least because there are so many different ways of achieving it.

Finding the easiest method has troubled me for a while, but thanks to a recent issue of Future Music, I now have just that and feel it worth passing on to anyone who cares to read this blog.

I won’t bother explaining what side chain compression is. Partly because it’s almost impossible to put into words and partly because, if you’ve reached this page, there’s a damn good chance you’re familiar with it anyway. If you’re not, listen to the opening few bars of Eric Prydz’s Call On Me. The ‘ducking’ string sound at the beginning is probably the most commercial example of it.

The tutorial I’m using is based on Logic Pro and its bundled compressor, but the same principle will apply for most DAWs. It also assumes a fairly good working knowledge of Logic.

Make sure you set this all up in your standard template so it is always present for every project you start.

The key is to create a hidden, silent, infinitely looping midi track. Pick a sound or single hit, although don’t be naturally tempted to reach for the kick drum bank – a tight hi-hat or short, snappy snare will actually do the trick better. These types of sounds are far tidier, frequency-wise and will ensure that they trigger a clean side chain signal when played. It’ll probably also help here if you boost some of the mid and top end and roll off some of the lower frequencies in the EQ.

Stick your chosen sound on a four bar loop and loop infinitely. Depending on what type of sound you’ve picked, you may need to whack the level up to get a good signal, but I’ll let you be the judge of that. Regardless, this can be tempered for each project, depending on how severe you want the side chain effect to be.

Send the output of the track to a bus and mute the bus track.

To keep things tidy, hide the track you have the looped four bar hit on by clicking the ‘H’.

That’s your side chain trigger set up. Simple as that. Now, whenever you want to squash the bejesus out of a synth patch, for example, add a compressor to the track in question and choose bus 3 in the Side Chain drop down box at the top right. Bring the compressor threshold way down to -30-40dB, the ratio as low as you like, knee at 0 and bring both the attack and release down to around 10ms. Adjust as you see fit.

As with many side chain tutorials, the above may seem complicated at first, but this is in fact the simplest method I’ve found yet. Have fun.

It is clear that the App Store is Jobs' primary concern when it comes to Flash

Big boss man of Apple, Steve Jobs, has recently attempted to justify his company’s reasons for not allowing the use of Adobe’s Flash on it’s mobile platforms. It’s an interesting read: http://www.apple.com/hotnews/thoughts-on-flash/.

However, all it does is confirm the one deciding factor he claims isn’t a deciding factor: the App Store.

In his second paragraph, Jobs begins by quashing any idea that Apple’s phenomenally successful application store for the iPhone, iPad and iPod Touch is at the heart of the denial of any Flash-based web content:

Adobe has characterized our decision as being primarily business driven – they say we want to protect our App Store – but in reality it is based on technology issues.

Later on in the piece, he goes into full-on contradiction mode:

Another Adobe claim is that Apple devices cannot play Flash games. This is true. Fortunately, there are over 50,000 games and entertainment titles on the App Store, and many of them are free. There are more games and entertainment titles available for iPhone, iPod and iPad than for any other platform in the world.

…Adobe also wants developers to adopt Flash to create apps that run on our mobile devices. We know from painful experience that letting a third party layer of software come between the platform and the developer ultimately results in sub-standard apps and hinders the enhancement and progress of the platform.

…Our motivation is simple – we want to provide the most advanced and innovative platform to our developers, and we want them to stand directly on the shoulders of this platform and create the best apps the world has ever seen.

Everyone wins – we sell more devices because we have the best apps…

And the 200,000 apps on Apple’s App Store proves that Flash isn’t necessary for tens of thousands of developers to create graphically rich applications, including games.

Not trying to protect your App store, Mr Turtleneck? I’m not so sure.

There’s nothing wrong with this, but it once again highlight’s Jobs’ ignorance and, surprisingly, apparent disregard for proof reading; the irony and contradictions in his article above are nothing short of laughable.

You don’t like Adobe and you don’t want Flash to be available on iPhones because it represents a direct threat to the growth of the App Store. That’s fine. Just admit it!

UPDATE: The Mack makes an appearance on a rather tasty mix from a good colleague of mine. Check out Persona1600′s mix below and find out more about him here: http://www.to/1600