The World Cup, what would ABBA do?
The failure with most sports venues in the UK, from my point of view is the food. I am a fan of fine dining, I don’t expect it at a sporting venue, however I would like something half-decent. It seems that most cafes on site offer a selection of the most unhealthy foods possible. Perhaps the thought process is, you’ve worked out, you deserve a treat. That’s fine as a one off, but over three days I will get bored of their cuisine and my body will start to complain, not to put a downer on the Futsal, their food is better than most places, but after three days my body will be craving some sort of vegetable matter.
The cuisine is my major fear. How will I survive?
When packing my camera bag for an event, lens selection is usually made by how many pork pies, sausage rolls or tasty savouries I need to pack. For the world cup I though I’d better go prepared. Two camera bodies, a selection of lenses, to cover all eventualities.
As the days pass, the lens’s have come out, then gone back in, re-packed in different configurations, camera bodies have gone in, then out, it’s like doing the bloody Hokey Cokey with camera gear. Lens selection has once more been governed by my stomach, not my head. My brain has resigned itself to a trip back home if my main body fails (which it wont).
Napoleon famously said that an army marches on it’s stomach. Little did he know that so do photographers, well, myself at least. Here’s hoping the Futsal canteen wont be my Waterloo. And now I can’t get ABBA out of my head!
The cuisine is my major fear. How will I survive?
When packing my camera bag for an event, lens selection is usually made by how many pork pies, sausage rolls or tasty savouries I need to pack. For the world cup I though I’d better go prepared. Two camera bodies, a selection of lenses, to cover all eventualities.
As the days pass, the lens’s have come out, then gone back in, re-packed in different configurations, camera bodies have gone in, then out, it’s like doing the bloody Hokey Cokey with camera gear. Lens selection has once more been governed by my stomach, not my head. My brain has resigned itself to a trip back home if my main body fails (which it wont).
Napoleon famously said that an army marches on it’s stomach. Little did he know that so do photographers, well, myself at least. Here’s hoping the Futsal canteen wont be my Waterloo. And now I can’t get ABBA out of my head!
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