Merry Christmases and a happy new year

Thirteen Santas and a Mean Cat
In old Icelandic folklore, Christmas brought with it a roguish band of brothers, the so-called Yuletide Lads. They were the offspring of the terrifying ogress Grýla, first mentioned in writing in the 13th century as a creature with 15 tails. Most stories of Grýla were told to frighten children – she was supposed to steal naughty children, put them in a sack and eat them. During the 19th century, the Yuletide Lads and their mother saw a gradual improvement in their image. From child-snatchers they developed into thieving tricksters who descended from the mountains one by one during the thirteen days before Christmas. Each of the Lads has a name which identifies him with his mischievous character, for example Sheepfold Stick, Gulley–oaf, Pot–licker, Peeping-Tom and Candle-beggar. These local ‘Santas’ got mixed up with the idea of a red-clad Santa bestowing gifts, and over the last century they have changed their outfits from natural woollens to red and white. Nowadays children place a shoe in their window on the thirteen days before Christmas, and if they’ve behaved well, the passing Yuletide Lad will leave them a present.

Another Christmas creature is the Yuletide Cat. This demoniac, gigantic black cat goes after the children who have no new clothes for the holidays. It is therefore a tradition for children to be given at least a pair of socks or gloves “so that the Christmas Cat won’t get you”.
for more

yes a whale

A Whale?

When is the last time a whale did anything for you? I just asked.

Please, if somebody get in touch with Mette, Liv, Trine or Jesper, ask them to write me. Is Majed's eMAIL still valid???

Faroe Islands tour de 2002
On 25th of July I set sails with the Ferry Norröna from Iceland to the Faroes Islands for the national Festival there wich is on 28th and 29th of July every year. the party starts on Thursday, but I expected to arrive there on Friday and was going to some outskirt hemlet to visit a friend of mine, but wanted to start the party on saturday. When I started to get tipsy onboard, I met the President of Althingi, the General Assembly, there, who asked me where I was going I told him so, and then he said no you cant do so, I asked him why he said because Iam going there.
and then We saild onwards, got more drunk, and had two more beers, like you might remember I used to do, and, the boat sailed onwards. Then I woke up, checked the time 08:54 and no sight of land what so ever, what the hell, 08:54 Icelandic time and we should be in the Faroes at 05:00 at Icelandic time, is there any reason for such a delay, I walked down to the restaurrant,and Asked, sorry but when do we come to the Faroe Islands.
- about 17:00 on monday
- no, no now is firday the festival starts at 14:00 on sunday
- yes - he said- i know, but we are sailing to Denmark
- then I thought, too bad, we went up to the Captain, who I had just recently spoken to together with Halldór Blöndal, this politcian and president of the General Assembly in Iceland
I had a change to use his phone, and I phoned to the Faroes to my friend who I intended to visit on that very same friday
- hello I am sorry but I cant really visit you to day, since I am a sortof still on board on Norröna
- he said what are you siling to Denmark
- yea kind of
- so you are going to Denmark, I thought you were coming to the Faroes
- yes and I want to go to the faroes
- so how come you are sailing to Denmark
- I actually slept for to long
- were you that drunk?
- a bit yes, but I can visit you on tuesday in I manage to come to the Faroes Liked expected on monday
and we let that be sufficient, then I went to the information desk, because I was told to go there, I asked
- Is there any ANY ANY flights at all from denmark to the Faroes on Saturday or sunday after our arrival in Denmark
- let me see
- we will arrive in Hanstholm at 18:00 Danish time
- and AND AND ??? what about the flights?????
- there is one from Billund at 21:15
- WILL I MANAGE TO CATCH THAT FLIGHT
- no you will missit by 15 minuites
- what abour Copenhagen????
- there is one flight from CPH at 10 in sunday morning
- I LLLl take it
- and there is another one at 08:55, -That I will take so how much will this cost me, - let me see 150 USD for the trip to Denmark and 180 USD for the flight from CPH [pretty expensoive 3 hours of sleep in non five star hotel]- ok no problemo - and then I went through Aarhus, saw north Jylland and met Mette & Liv, Trine was in Spain, Jesper was in wedding party, Thomas was about to leave to Vietnam, Sherry was in China and Madjed did not Answere the same is walid for Steens and Stefans numbers, and saw Fyn in the night, and Copenhagen once again, I was there if there was any reunion but the only one, and I had a Danish beers on Kastrup the airport and managed to go to the Tórshavn citycenter at 13:00 on sundey so I did not miss any of the official festival and ended up dancing Faroes Folk dance at the same spot and the same time together with the president of the pairlament.
So this was very giving travel, I met Hanna and she was fine.

Now some admin has been given out to the People of IPC.

Mónkia now has her third boy, together with the twins Femi and Remi she has now the youngest Lemi, congratulations Móníka

Tom, get in touch with me!
Ricardo (rvarnier@terra.com.br)

And we have 3 more who have not yet said a word, I hope they have not lost their password to this EC, Stefan and Tom try to tell us what you are up to

Jesper did send out an e-mail suggestin a reunion of us in Helsingör on the 27th and 28th of July this year but I do not know how many said they would come, I said I had other plans but I would have taken the cruse to Denmark if Jesper would have said the reunoin will be and so would it be.

The reunion was cancelled due to foreseen low turn out rate. Ricardo ok - This Article was just a funny artcle with some very true points to it but I will Mention it to Hallgrím if I see him soon ;)
Hope the rain would reduce where it is in to much quantity and would divide it self some more to other places as well.

Bjarki, Brazil was in ALL World Cups- since the first in Uruguay (I believe it was in 1924), not just all after 1954.
Does somebody can drop some lines about the meeting in Helsingør? Who was there?
Peace for you all

I heard Evelinas voice on friday, she was going to Hungary, I hope she could contact Móníka, as a matter of a fact we did not have any valid phone numer for her so I do not know if she could contact Móníka. Then I called the Netherlands, Elise is working as a intern on the television in Netherlands and she plans to graduate in February, Manja is planing to graduate in December, I hope them both a great success.
Best wishes

Timo you are so welcome here please keep on leting us know what is on schedule at this time with you.

Garba is on his way to Turkey on the behalf of Crossing borders I hope he has a plesant and succesful travel. and Evelina is on her way to Hungary I hope she will meet Móníka.

http://www.crossingborder.org

Thomas it is nice to here you are getting setled there I would like to jump over and have a beer or two, but how was Hiep and how does your phone numbers look out these days?
welcome again Thomas

Thank you for the tip, Ricardo and welcome home Mika.
I am as well again in Iceland after one week long travel arround mis known rutes in the Nortern Hemosphere :)

Please, get in touch with http://www.crossingborder.org - A project initiated by the International People's College in Elsinore Denmark with a grant from DANIDA.

Hey, does anybody knows the Moldovian Victor Todoriuc's phone, adress or any kind of way of contact? Please, let me know asap.
Ricardo (rvarnier@terra.com.br)

Mika, hablando bien español, como Bjaki? Conprehende tambien portugués?

Mika, hablando bien español, como Bjaki? Conprehende tambien portugués?

O that is nice, thank you guys, To morrow I will go to The Faroe Islands that is my trip for this year, I will be there for one week. You might ask why I do not Travel any further this year, it is simple I am getting used to beeing here after my time in Mexico and I have been traveling with in Iceland for some time.
But since Ricardo asked about if Icelad did play football, then I want to show you this article written in weekend avisen in Denmark:

Fifa Fair Pay The Story Of My World Cup Or How The World Lost Its Cup
BY HALLGRIMUR HELGASON

One of the best ways to enjoy the Football World Cup is to be Icelandic. Then you can support any team you will. We have never made it to the finals. And never will. Not until Fifa allows us our own North Atlantic preliminary group that would consist of Iceland, Greenland, The Faeroe Islands, Canada, Svalbard and Jan Mayen. (Well, Jan Mayen is a stretch since only fourteen people live there, but still, they would have three women on the bench.) However, this kind of group hardly sounds more absurd than the Oceania-groups: Australia, Fiji-Islands, Tonga, West Samoa and the American Samoa Islands. (Australia won this group on a goal difference of 66-0, beating the U.S. Samoans 31-0 at home.)
Our only other hope is that we will be allowed to clone Eidur Gudjohnsen (of Chelsea fame) ten times. Fifa has looked into it but still not made their final decision.
But these sad facts do not spoil our love for the World Cup, nor do they hinder us from becoming football-crazy every four years, like all the other and forever bystanding “small nations” of this world. The Icelanders are in fact able to cheer for any team at all, except the Germans, who in our country are only supported by those three blonde-bearded guys who studied philosophy in Heidelberg. I don’t exactly know why we don’t like the Germans, but I guess it has something to do with their intolerable self-confidence. At the World Cup the Germans are always a bit like the fat and rich kid that used to play soccer with us after school. It didn’t matter if he was good or not; he had to play, because he owned the ball. At the World Cup the Germans own the ball. It’s made by adidas. This is why they can never go home until the last game is over.
So we, the Icelandic people, are able to go for any nation at all, as long as it’s on a winning streak. Those who don’t know anything about football support Brazil. Those who know something about football support France. And those who know everything about football favor England, since we’ve been watching FA football on every Saturday for the last 30 years. Then of course we all support Denmark, because they used to be a part of our republic. We only let go of them back in 1944 (we thought the Germans would never leave), probably the biggest mistake in our nation’s history. (Imagine Tomasson and Rommedahl playing for Iceland alongside... say 6 Gudjohnsens...) Then, finally, we have of course a very weak spot for the “small ones”, “the outsiders” like Camerun, Senegal, Ireland, The USA, Japan and yes, Korea.

The World Cup In Memoriam
You always remember where you were at each finals. You can measure your life in World Cups.
Being brought up in the harm-free idyll of middle-class Reykjavik, one of the biggest moments of my childhood was watching the final of 1966, England–W. Germany at Wembley, even though the broadcast was delayed for six months. It was shown on December 31st. (Icelandic TV only started in the fall and decided to save the big one for the holidays.) Our father even bought us a TV-set right before Christmas, just to be able to see this game. And it was spectacular. It hadn’t lost any of it’s excitement even though it had been lying on the TV-director’s shelf for half a year.
Came ’78 and I was a teenager working with a friend deep in the Norwegian woods counting trees. The huts didn’t have any TV’s, but at the time of the final-game we lost count of all the trees, made our way to the nearest farm we found on the map (a good two hour’s walk) and knocked on the door. An Amish-looking elderly couple let us in and lighted the TV. They had never heard of football and were amazed to see that there were no trees on the field. So, between four great goals, we were forced to listen to the old farmer tell us all about his favorite boyhood sport: “Woodball.”
By the time of the World Championships in Mexico ’86, I was a painter with a studio in Boston and had to watch the games on American TV, through a Budweiser advertising frame that compressed the broadcasted image into such a small square on the screen that you hardly could see the ball. The commentary was done by a CBS baseball-sportscaster who called every goal “a home-run”.
Still, you always loved the World Cup. We did everything we had to do, just to be able to see the World Cup. We waited for six months. We peered through beer-commercials. We even spoke Norwegian for two hours.

Becoming Kofi Annan
This time around I had become a writer and luckily found myself on the soccer-speaking side of the Atlantic, in self-proclaimed exile and isolation in a small village in Isola D’Elba, just off the coast of Tuscany, working on a novel.
In Italy, when you’re from the other side of the Alps, they all think you’re a “tedesco”; a German. (This is similar to our belief that all Italians are waiters.) And since I speak a bit more German than my six word Italian, the owner of the restaurant where I had my dinner every night, and who spoke fairly good German, quickly decided that I was in fact a German. As did all the German regulars in the restaurant. I tried to clear up this misunderstanding. I tried to say I was not a German, but my German was not good enough.
So, when the Germans beat the Saudis in their first game by 8 goals, all the tourists greeted me at dinner with: “Heute war doch spitze!” and “Toll, ja, nicht?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah... Klose enough.
Some of them came to the bar to watch their next game, Germany against Ireland, and promptly included me in their fan-club, until I quite subconsciously jumped off my seat cheering the Robbie Keane last minute goal. This created a very complicated discussion in the bar which ended with the local owner concluding that I was “irlandese!” and not (as I tried to say) “islandese”.
So, now I was not a German any more, but Irish, for the next couple of days at least. Until the Sweden-Nigeria game. The guys in the bar looked a bit suspiciously at the Irishman when they heard him say “jo!” after each Larsson goal. (My book did well in Sweden but the Nigerians haven’t shown any interest yet.)
Now I was really getting into the habitual Icelandic World Cup whoring: Let the good guys score! The Japanese were great, and the Koreans really took you by their energy and the incredible stadium-atmosphere. The Brazilians were on a roll, and even the U.S. team was hugely entertaining. And how about those Senegalese! Before the last group games I was feeling more and more like Kofi Annan. Wherever I went, I was always at home with my fellow countrymen. In the square, chatting with some American kids, I was a big Landon Donovan-fan. In the café I was really trying hard to comfort the local Polish priest. On the bus, asking two Swedish girls for directions, I was all “Heja Sverige!” And after the Italians had been deprived of two legal goals in one game, I had even learned to curse the “arbitro scandaloso!” in Italian.
I even made a friend. The only black man in the village; a lonely guy from Senegal who spoke French. He worked in a restaurant on the beach, washing dishes in the kitchen and was thus sadly unable to see most of his team’s games, since the TV was out in the dining area. This was symbolic: All the Senegalese players came from the French first division, deserted by their own stars after becoming World Champions in 1998. The Africans’ victory over France in the first game was a Revolution in the French cusine; the hungry dishwashers beating the jet-setters still stuffing themselves with the fruit of their past glory. The Senegal team could have gone all the way if they’d had a trainer other than Howard Stern.
Still my United Nations-mood proved a bit too strong, when my Senegal-friend stopped me short in my passionate monologue praising Diouf and Bouba Diop and African football in general, and asked where I was from? By then, my mind was all on the upcoming Camerun-Germany game, and again I, quite subconsciously, said:
“Oh... I’m from Camerun.”
But in a way it was true. This is the great thing about the World Cup. You can change your nationality every day. But then came the difficult games:
Denmark-England 0-3. As I said before, Denmark used to be part of our republic for... Yeah, for five minutes. Until that Ferdinand goal. The England team was by then quite impressive even though they were not playing their game anymore. Eriksson had taught them the Italian style of calcio. The Art of Waiting. Wait until your opponent makes a mistake. This worked quite well for them until the art of waiting became waiting for themselves to score.
Germany-United States 1-0. This game only became difficult for me because the film based on my book, “101 Reykjavik”, was released in Germany the night before the game and got really good reviews. So, I was suddenly feeling a bit sympathetic towards the kinsfolk of Kahn und Klose. But, having lived in 4 foreign countries, the United States is the only one I could ever call a “home”. It’s closer to my heart, as close as the Americans came beating the Germans. Well, of course it’s always really hard to beat the Germans. Even if you’re playing your ball, it’s still theirs.
Italy-Korea 1-2. I was in Italy. They had a great team. And they also have a fantastic TV-audience. You can hardly hear the broadcast for all the loud-mouths around you. But still, you had to admire the Koreans. They tried to play football all the time. This was probably the most dramatic game of the World Cup. It was like an opera; with 50.000 Koreans providing the music, the libretto containing a lucky hero (Ahn), an unfortunate one (Totti), and Dr. Evil himself: Mr. Byron Moreno, the Ecuadorian referee, by now the most hated man in Italy. And even though Byron (“poco Lord, molto Fifa”) and his linesmen made some really strange decisions, I thought then that this was just bad luck all over. I was the only one sitting in the bar watching the Koreans jump on top of Ahn after he scored the golden goal. All the 30 locals had rushed out in the square as soon as the ball crossed the line, and were fifteen minutes later seen asking some inquiring tourists: “What World Cup? Is there a World Cup going on?”
I did not believe the Italians in their conspiracy-theories. Not until deep into the Spain-Korea game. The day that football died.

Fifa Fair Pay
Well. We had our doubts. We had our suspicions. After the news of Fifa’s financial mismanagement and the accusations against its president, Mr. Sepp Blatter. After he banned his opponents to speak at the Fifa meeting just before his reelection at the eve of the World Cup. And after the sacking of Blatter’s assistant who betrayed his loyalty. And after seeing how the teams were placed in the first round groups. It did not look very good. It all made Fifa’s famous catchphrase “Fifa Fair Play” seem like a joke.
Germany was amongst the last countries to qualify for this World Cup, being forced to play a late qualifier against the Ukraine. Still it was first to be drawn in an easy group. Brazil the same. The Brazilians finished third (even behind Ecuador) in the South American preliminary group for the WC, but that was all forgotten when it came to place them in a group in Korea/Japan. All those eighteen games that Argentina played in such style to finish on top in the South American group came to nothing when the “fair-playing” hand of Fifa cast them in “the group of death” at the WC with England, Nigeria and Sweden, who all won their preliminary groups as well; England beating Germany for the first place. Fifa’s argument, I believe, is that Brazil and Germany deserved VIP-treatment because they won the World Cup sometime in the last century.
Well. In Fifa’s Fair Play some are fairer than others.
It was Fifa’s good old favoritism once again. Germany and Brazil will never be placed in “a group of death”. It seems like all World Cups are designed so that those two soccer giants can only meet in the final game. Because: The astonishing fact is that even though Germany and Brazil are the only two countries who’ve been present in all the tournaments since 1954, they have never met in a World Cup game, until now. Fifa finally had its dream come true. Thanks to the Brazilian Havelange, and thanks to the Swiss-German Blatter, and thanks to Korea, and all the wonderful linesmen and referees.
And actually it was worth the wait. The 2002 Final was one of the most entertaining football matches we ever saw. Maybe the best final ever. Even though they never had a chance, the Germans finally showed us that they have a good team. The final even made us forget all the preceding games’ dubious calls and disallowed goals. But only for 90 minutes.
That the Brazilians and the Germans were the ones to capitalize on the “only human”-mistakes of referees at the 2002 WC was to be expected. People didn’t even bother to complain. (The Belgians didn’t, and the Americans only vaguely so.) It would have sounded like whining about the weather. But that the on-pitch-officials were also favoring the Koreans came as a bigger surprise. Until we read all about Blatter’s new best friend, the main organizer of the World Cup, head of the Korean Football Association, as well as being the vice president of the Hyundai car-maker, the “Official Partner of Fifa’s World Cup”, and vice president of Fifa (or its president of vice), Mr. Chung Mong Yoon, who—as all these titles were not enough—also stands as a candidate in the upcoming presidential election in Korea.
Well, you had to feel sorry for the Spanish, for Raul and Morientes, Hierro and Casillas. Those truly great soccer players deserved more. The ever-humble and never-cheating Raul deserved his final. But how could the poor Spaniards know that they were not playing a World Cup football game but an important election rally in the Korean presidential election campaign?
This must be the reason why we saw all those “new faces” in charge of the Korean games in the second round: All those obscure figures from countries foreign to fast and first class football, sweating with stress and inexperience, in charge of immensely important World Cup games like Italy-Korea and Spain-Korea. It must be easier to put money in the pocket of a “nobody from nowhere going nowhere” than an experienced man of ambition and integrity. The Spanish tried all they could to get experienced linesmen for their game, but were blattered by Fifa. We have to wait for a real and honest whistleblower amongst the Fifa Refereeing Committee for the truth to come out. We have to wait until Fifa will clean it’s blattered image. We have to wait until Blatter’s Mafifa becomes our Fifa again.
You had the feeling that it all went according to a plan. Put the difficult Argentines in a group they will suffer from—and yes! even eliminate them—and then finish the other big Europeans off with referees and linesmen from obscure places: An inexperienced Ecuadorian referee for the Italians, an Egyptian for the Spaniards, with linesmen from Trinidad and Uganda, of all places; all in favor of Korea, who then would bow out with dignity and allow the Germans to proceed to the final. This is what you heard, in every bar and every square, from tourists and locals alike; that Mr. Hyundai only had paid for the semifinals.
The Italians were the hardest hit by the “village referees” as the great Vieri called them. Five goals disallowed and one ridiculous red card that looked very much like a Korean credit card. But when the Trinidad linesman Ragoonath lifted his flag on Spanish Morientes’ golden goal against Korea, and ruled the ball out of play, he ruled all of us out of the world’s biggest play. We didn’t have faith in it anymore. The World had lost its Cup.
It took the genius of Ronaldo to shoot us back into WC-mood. We were all happy that the Brazilians won, and we were all very happy to see Ronaldo get his deserved place in history. Brazilian captain Kafu would surely have lifted the golden trophy in any case, amateur linesmen or not. But still the final game was haunted by players who could have been there. The ghost of Raul constantly ran across the screen...
We used to love our World Cup. We used to do anything for our World Cup. We used have complete faith in our World Cup. But not anymore. This World Cup was a disgrace. It seems to have been sold to an Asian car-maker with presidential ambitions. All we can hope for is that Fifa got a Fair Pay for it.
Hallgrimur Helgason is an Icelandic writer. His most recent novel is “101 Reykjavik” (Rosinante)

Hello everybody! Let's join IPC 97's Blog!!
Ricardo from Brazil
PS.: Bjarki, my mobile phone is + 55 51 99477834 and homephone is + 55 51 33331600

Please do not take it any personally, that I have not made any phone call to any of you recently. It is only a result to that my phone book was wiped out of my mobil phone.

This is actually rather popular in Icleand right now, this blogg thing and it is quite easy to use

I hope that you can enjoy this

Here we can write what we think about what we want to when ever we feel like write anything :)