More about Life

On checking out of our plush hotel, we couldn't help notice a big advertising board extolling "A Great deal for a great room." And we thought, yes it was a great room... and it was expensive. We assume they meant "a great deal" as in a deal that was great, but advertisers should beware of phrases that have two meanings.

We popped over to Baker Street, famous for being the home of musician turned detective Gerry Rafferty and his sidekick, Doctor Egan, who both lived together in Shylock Homes, an apartment block owned by a former money-lender. I think that's right. Anyway, I do know his nemesis was a man named Arthur Mori.

We were here to meet up with one of Cath's cousins, her husband and their kids for a very pleasant lunch in a nice neck of London.

However, before long it was time to head back. And time became more pressing when at Victoria we not only had problems trying to get the ticket machine to sell us a ticket, but we had to run to the express service just in time to watch it leave. So we ran back and jumped on a slow service. Once we did get to our destination, we found that the signs from the station to the airport were just plain confusing. I believe we British think travelling is sinful and only bad sorts and foreigners do it, so we do anything to make it impossible for them to get anywhere. Eventually we found the line to check in for our flight, but we were only in it 20 seconds before we were called out as our plane was hoping to leave soon.

Flights to Amsterdam from Gatwick generally leave from The Island. The Island is a small outcrop of gates joined by a high bridge, tall enough to clear big planes. The whole trip along the tunnel is accompanied by bird song and new age music. I think it's supposed to be calming, but I have a problem with the whole concept that natural noises need to have a soundtrack put behind them. If it was supposed to be like that, Nature would produce its own muzak. But it doesn't. The long conveyer belts and this supposedly restful soundtrack, reminds me of some science fiction film where old people are shunted off along extensive corridors to some place of final rest. Usually to be turned into food.

Obviously, one more snag is due, to make the quota, and that came in the form of the state-of-the-art Schiphol baggage system getting all confused and not being able to deliver our luggage for quite a while. Another clear example of people waiting for these time-saving computers to sort themselves out. But eventually, after their mini strike, the computers spat our bags out and we dragged them home to feed our surprisingly indifferent cats.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Music, NL, Transport, Travel, UK

I met some of the wedding guests for breakfast at a greasy spoon [café] for a delicious, artery-closing, British breakfast. Sausages, egg, fried bread and a delicate rocket salad. Oh, hang on, there was no salad.

After breakfast, Cath and I wandered over London Bridge to Borough Market. Borough Market used to be a wholesale fruit and vegetable market. It has since been restyled and upmarketed (if that's a word) as a tourist attraction and popular lunch spot. We picked up some tasty-looking flapjacks and brownies before lunching at Prêt-A-Manger. I'd missed Prêt-A-Manger, but this time it was disappointing, especially after the previous day's Eat. (How can jalapeno chicken be disappointing? I don't know. it has everything: bread, chicken and jalapeno.) I know I should be finding more interesting places, but I've missed these chains. I even missed Benjy's, which has long since gone.

After wandering by Tottenham Court Road and checking out old haunts such as The Actors' Centre, where I used to perform improv before being thrown out by Zaphod Beeblebrox, we slipped back to the hotel for coffee and flapjacks.

(I kid you not, Zaphod Beeblebrox himself threw us out. Or at least the guy who used to play him. I think he thought we were taking the Mickey when we played two-headed expert.)

For dinner, we shipped down to Parsons Green to a promising-looking Indian place that was very good indeed. The condiments alone were worthy of many medals.

Before we ate we had a chance and find more of those curiosities London has lurking about. Such as a luxury boutique for dogs and cats as well as our future robot overlords having a night out.

However, the rigours of travel had taken their toll. Despite pleas to favour parties with our presence (it's grand to feel popular), it was actually bed that lured us anywhere.

Labels: Food, Improv, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

Because it was one of those classy hotels with foreign staff, we got a free newspaper. I don't remember which one, but as I remember being in a good mood, it was certainly not the Daily Malice.

I must have been in a good mood as we went shopping. And to prove that even the Gods were smiling down on us that day, as we shopped, we encountered a small camp where some young, attractive things thrust Wii controllers in our hands and commanded that we play a few games of Wii Sports. Not only that, but, if our fumbling yielded the high score of the day, we would win a Wii of our own. And because Odin was very pleased with the shelves he'd made that day, we did get high scores. However, this was quite early morning, long before lunching kids came by and no doubt trampled all over our high scores. Tsk, kids today. Trashing their elders and betters' computer game scores. When I was a young'un... oh, yeah, I used to do the same.

We had lunch at "Eat," one of those mid-market sandwich chains. The mildly pretentious order of a name made me yearn for a bar called "Drink!" an escort service called "Girls!" and an Irish Brothel called, "Feck!"

Eat's wares were very good and reminded me how great the competition is for sandwiches in London. People don't think of the sandwich as a typical London food, but sandwich places probably outnumber all other types of eatery. I have no statistics to back up this claim, but this is a blog not an encyclopaedia. If you do demand information to back up what I say, I'll have you know all relevant data is available in the only source I know and trust, More's Uncyclopaedia.

The area of our hotel is one where Japanese restaurants are locked in some kind of monumental battle. Each restaurant tries to out-psych the other by having a name that sounds most like a martial art. Nobu, Roka, Umu, Zuma. Actually, that makes no sense as, given my ignorance, most Japanese words sound like a martial art. Sushi. Teriyaki. Sake. Any one of these would beat me in a fight. I can see the proponents standing before me taking poses and naming them. "Raw Fish Roll." "Soy Sauce Cow." "Liquid Alcohol Rice."

The reason we were in London this weekend was for a wedding. Friends and former flatmates of mine were tying the knot after years of living in and around sin (and before that, East Acton).

Many, many moons ago, myself and a young trekkie called Norm joined forces with a couple of lasses who we'd met through improv and moved in together. It is the stuff that makes sitcoms. It also makes dramas. And occasionally horror stories. This was something of all three made into a musical and directed by Richard Curtis and David Lynch. Well, amidst the clutter and fallings in and out, romance bloomed for two of the household. And I don't mean myself and Crash Bandicoot, although me and that guy... we shared some times.

The wedding, like all good weddings, was a chance to meet up with people you hadn't seen for millennia. In fact many of people at the wedding I knew, it was almost like wedding in my own family.

Mitsubishi. Sanyo. Honda. "Off-Road Bike." "Wide-Screen, Surround-Sound Display." "Four-Door Family Hatchback."

I'd met Norm through a guy called Dave who ran something not unlike facebook, but way before that. This was before the web. Possibly even before the internet. As I recall it, messages were carried by young street urchins for a shilling a packet. Well, Dave started one of the longest-running internet communities on a thing called Mono. It was one of the first places I let stuff I'd written leak out. The fact that the crazy people there liked it helped me form the belief I'm not bad at it and kept me from being the greatest IT consultant the world has ever seen.

Back at the wedding, there was great food, cake, antipodean balloon artists, many, many old friends and a band that played covers. (Although they played them a lot more faithfully than I like my covers. To me covers, should be ironic or played in a completely different style to the original. But then, I'm wrong on quite a few things.) Cath and I hung out with those who refused to leave until the band had to pack up and the inflatable dingos started deflating.

Sayonara. "One Hand Wave."

Labels: Anthropology, Computers, Drink, Food, Games, History, Improv, Movies, Music, Travel, UK

Bam! Gom!

No, we didn't start the trip by fighting Batman; we started it on a train. The train happened to go past a couple of companies that amused me. These were "Bam!" and "Gom!" Or to give them their full names: "BAM Utiliteitsbouw Regio Noordwest" and "Gom Specialistische Reiniging." I believe if you take the other route to the airport, you pass "Shazamm Internet Solutions" and "Kapowww Kippenboerderij."

Having recently been to the US, I was very familiar with how it felt to be in the slow foreigners' line. This time, however, it was Catherine's turn to take this line whilst I took the quick one where some youngster pretends to not even look at your passport and wave you through.

Once through, however, I joined a combined line of confused foreigners and grumpy Brits to be sold train tickets by a very weary Italian. This was before we got our bags. Basically, there's a little kiosk that gives all the appearance of being convenient, but is then purposefully understaffed and decorated with confusing signs. The modern British railway system is no longer about getting U (designating you) from A to B; it's about getting ₤ from U to B (designating board members and shareholders). The more confused you are, the more money you throw at them.

Lunch was had with friends and family in a pub somewhere not too far from the airport. Somehow they were out of burgers and steak pies, which is pretty much everything in a pub like that.

After this, we were dropped off at the airport where we had to once again negotiate the confusing fare structure that privatisation has unnecessarily imposed on us poor train-travelling folk. There are three different tickets to get to London because there are three different carriers. (This is ignoring the class structure that doubles the number of tickets.) Train companies wish they were airlines and have real trouble accepting they are not.

Our hotel was grand and prestigious. It sat in a cul-de-sac just around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was run by Italians which meant the staff were handsome and stylishly dressed. Plus they had those accents where you couldn't completely be sure they weren't asking you to go to bed with them. It's always safer in these circumstances to assume they're not.

New Scotland Yard no longer looks like what it does in all those old cop series. Especially because it's hard to find an angle from where you can clearly see that rotating sign thing with all the security barricades. It makes it look like the Sweeney was set in simpler times.

After checking in, we made our way to the headquarters of Clarion where an old flatmate was working keeping Noddy in check. For those of you who didn't know, Noddy is back. Again. Noddy first disappeared in the 1980s. Nobody quite knows where but when he came back Mr Golly and all the other Gollies had disappeared. Nobody talks about this sinister aspect of Noddy's history. In fact it seems to be heralded as a good thing.

I finally got to see The London Paper which has come and gone during my time away from London. It was a free competitor to Metro and The Evening Standard but somehow far more downmarket than either. Yes, than either. It's gone now, and from what I saw, won't be missed.

As we came back to the hotel, the girl behind the desk bid us goodnight.

I turned quickly to Catherine, "Do you think she means..."

"No," she said.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Transport, Travel, TV, UK, War

Am currently thoroughly amused by the BBC row about Rage Against the Machine singing their song live on the radio. Source: Guardian.

Without irony, they told the band not to say the "Fuck you" part of their famous refrain, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" Even if this is all you know about the band, that this is one of their lines, what do you think the band are going to do? They almost have no choice. To drop any part of the line seems to undermine its whole sentiment, and so really they either sing the whole fucking thing or they dump the it and cover The Carpenters.

Not that I wouldn't pay to hear Rage Against The Machine lay into a carpenters song. I always felt On Top of the World was a song about the injustice of a hierarchical religious structure that puts a single being above all others.

The reason people are talking about Rage Against The Machine again (not that they should have stopped, but they did) is because there is a campaign to make them number one for Christmas in the UK instead of some bland garbage oozed out by X-factor. (I haven't heard the song, but I stand by the words "bland," "garbage" and "oozed.") It's a way of saying "Fuck You" to Simon Cowell, which is to be applauded however it's done. There is also another movement afoot the have the Christmas number one be Tim Minchin's beautiful and sentimental (although self-justifyingly so) White Wine in the Sun.

My only fear is that those drones that really like X-factor will see these campaigns and be even more determined to buy the X-factor ooze and so make even more money for Simon Cowell and cause Joe McElderry's drug-addled death to happen all the sooner. And even if RATM (Rage Against The Machine) does make it to number one, we all know they probably won't be on the Christmas TOTP (Terror Over The Profanities), although we can be pretty sure we'll hear the X-factor single whether it tops or flops.

Labels: Christmas, Music, TV, UK

Church of the day: St. Peter's Vietnamese Catholic Church.

Not many people realise St. Peter (or San Pi Ta) was Vietnamese. In fact only a handful are even aware there were Vietnamese Jews in Israel in and around 0 AD/BC. What we do all know is that AD/BC was the rock band that Peter fronted. It's not mentioned much, but when Jesus said, "Peter, you are my rock," he actually screamed it out from the front row of the Jerusalem Amphitheatre (now the Cellcom Arena).

First port of call for today was a pleasant, well-run nursing home currently housing one of Catherine's relatives. It's usually hard not to be depressed around nursing homes, but this place does almost everything to make itself seem like a hotel. Except that most of the staff dress like nurses. Mind you, many people would pay very good money to stay in a hotel where the staff dress like nurses.

Lunch was ambushed at Spring Creek Barbeque. Here there were several options for getting your food. You could shuffle along the canteen-style line to pick out what you wanted; or you could stand at a desk and request it for take-away from the smiley lady. There was also an extra stand selling "cobblers." Cobblers are a kind of filled dumpling. If you're British, never has "carry-out" food been so "Carry On."

In-restaurant music was provided by a CD of Christian rock. For those of you who don't know Christian rock, this was a highly typical example. It was bland, country-tinged AOR (Adult-Orientated Rock) with choruses of the sort that go, "Jesus is alive!" with a portion of the gusto that other bands use when celebrating women who "shake." No matter what your views on religion, it's safe to assume Jesus deserves better than Christian rock. Most bands are very pale imitations indeed of the legendary AD/BC.

The middle of the day was devoted to golf, the gentleman of sports. The only sport that comes with its own special buggy (except, of course, buggy racing) and where you have the chance to see bobcats (except, perhaps, bobcat buggy chasing). I was very pleased with how it all turned out. My previous experience with golf had been limited to knocking balls about as a way to get out of more physical sports at school and a couple of practice rounds over the years. But I still remembered how to swing that stick and thwack that ball in roughly the right direction and for a reasonable percentage of the distance required. Not quite Tiger Woods, but perhaps Pussycat Bracken.

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If TV ads are to be taken as showing what Americans think they need, then the answer is: cars and medication. In fact the number of car ads is down since the auto industry rolled over the side of a cliff and burst into flames. Of the medications, very popular seem to be Viagra and "Cialis," which I only know about from my email box.

The best thing about the ads for medication (including Viagra, Cialis and the like) is that so much time goes towards (a) making sure you check with your doctor first; (b) warning you about possible side effects; and (c) making sure if anything unusual occurs, you go to your doctor. More time is spent warning you about the product than is spent trying to sell it.

America has come a long way and I never thought I'd hear the words "erectile dysfunction" in the middle of the day on a US TV station. Not that I really wanted to. The "erectile dysfunction" ads show a lot of men older than 30 sitting on sofas with women and talking. And thus by implication, not having sex. In fact, had the announcer not said the words "erectile dysfunction" you wouldn't have guessed he was hoping for sex, except for the fact he was a man alone with a woman. There is nothing suggestive of the situation except a mild sadness in the couple's eyes. In Italy, no doubt they have a cartoon penis to advertise these products who starts of flaccid and out of breath. In the US, this would cause heart attacks and riots on the street. My campaign for Viagra would be hosted by former cartoon dog, Droopy. He would be perfect for the role. There's almost certainly a cartoon where he drank growth serum.

Dinner was had at Chedders a chain of restaurants that are pleasantly decorated but frequented by noisy people. The food is the usual sweet, salty fare. Even the carrots were sweetened, which is a crime against humanity. Or at least against veganity, which I'm sure is nearly as bad. They had music in the background and, guess what, Chedders plays pop. (You have to be British and over 30 to appreciate that joke.)

In the evening we visited Cath's spirited Aunt Vora, who lives in one of those neighbourhoods with faux-wooden bungalows on each plot.

I was told not to walk on the grass because of things called chiggers. Chiggers are local-grown little critters that live in the grass but prefer skin. They cause itching and rashes and things like that. Nobody seemed to have a good word for them. There ought to be a joke about the sort of music they play, perhaps only suitable for Brits over 30, but I can't think of what it would be.

On the subject of music, I'll leave you with a tune that was following us around on the radio waves this trip. It's something like New Wave Electro English Beat Queen Gary Numan Pink Floyd. Ladies I give you Late of the Pier with Bathroom Gurgle: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYuwGGqd0y4

PS Of course, right at the end should come the set-up for both the jokes in this entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4TmQxLjELI Glorious!

Labels: Food, Music, Religion, Science, Sport, Travel, TV, UK, US

I spent much of the day digitally scanning old slides from the 60s and 70s and ripping music from the 50s and 60s. It was clearly what you call a retro day. I remember thinking that as I sat there in my spats and zoot suit.



What wasn't retro was the edible bouquet that arrived in the morning. In these "Hard Financial Times" (as I believe the newspaper is now called), people consider flowers somewhat extravagant, not having a practical value. So the new thing is fruit in the shape of a bouquet of flowers. The fruits are peeled and shaped and stuck on plastic sticks. This being the US, some fruits are covered in chocolate. I'm not knocking it. In fact, the banana covered in black and white chocolate won several Saliva™ awards or the Droolies™ as they're known.

The county where Cath's parents live is dry. This doesn't mean arid, although Texas is somewhat desert-like; it means alcohol is not for sale. Anyone who wants alcohol and time, day or night, has to get in their car and drive as far as the next county. Although, in fact, the local law was recently relaxed and it is now possible to get some alcohol at certain places and times, although I'm not sure of the specifics. This was fine by me as I was using this week to have a rest from the old short-sighted devil called alcohol. It was a scheme that lasted nearly a week after I got back to Amsterdam.

The reason for all the earlier retro activity was that we were celebrating Cath's parents' 50th anniversary. There was a party, held at a nearby hotel. There was a bar, but it was not a bar-partaking group. Many of the kin being god- and beer-fearing folk. I can't say as I have ever been to a gathering like this where someone didn't get drunk, so that was a novelty.

There was a toast and everyone was given Champagne glasses. What was in the glasses was not actually Champagne, but cider. And it was not actually cider, but what Americans call cider, which is really fizzy apple juice. Even so, people had to be told this, as there was some concern that it was alcoholic. The uproar had they been told it was Champagne and they must drink it would be nothing compared to the uproar at a British wedding were they served alcohol-free fizzy apple juice.

The party had a lot of speeches and reminiscences about the happy couple, most often about how helpful and supportive they were. In Cath's family there are a lot of people who have seen and done a lot and paid witness to great social changes. To me it's a history lesson every time they get to speak.

The downside of many people being older is that they don't stay up late and party like they used to. Although for jetlagged people always looking for their next bed fix, that's not necessarily a downside.

We chipped in a bit to make sure the bar staff got some tips for the night. It's quite normal in America for bar staff not to be paid by the venue, but by them receiving the tips. To European eyes, it seems morally suspect, but Americans are generally happy with it as part of their culture as they tip almost everybody. I've put a jar by the bed just to see how strong this compulsion is in Catherine. Not very, it seems.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Fashion, History, Music, Travel, UK, US

When I was a teenager cycling to school, I wondered at those kids who could cycle no handed. Steering a bike without direct use of one's hands seemed to be a form of magical control over one's environment. As a clumsy, awkward soul forced into a stringy, uncontrollable body, a state where any form of movement didn't feel like it resembled an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy was something unobtainable.

Some people walk effortlessly into a room and the room makes space for them. I would walk in, barely missing the door frame and often even the air itself wouldn't part for me.

Many years lie between me and that self-conscious Kentish boy. I now find myself walking foreign cobbles and, more frequently, cycling on them.

A couple of years after coming to Amsterdam (supposedly for six months) I felt for the first time in my life able to try cycling with no hands. Amongst the Dutch, born on cycles and able to perform things on them that in the UK would only be done in a circus, it was a basic skill, but for me it was still a mystical overachievement.

On the first try, my hands tentatively left the bars; there was a wobble and they returned. They were off for less than a second but long enough for me to realise, despite the wobble, there was some small chance I could master this. After all, I had not instantly fallen off and been crushed by a passing steamroller. I worked at it; the brief period increased, but rarely got beyond a whole second. It was frustrating. The more I tried the less progress I seemed to make. I watched intently the people who could do it to see what I was doing wrong. They didn't seem to put any effort into it as if they were mocking me.

It was one of those wonderful late summer days where the leaves are getting excited about autumn but the clouds are still on holiday so that for a short period the sun is allowed access to every part of the city. It rests itself on the dark canal water that hides surprisingly well-fed fish. It shines in the stained glass above the doors of once-notable narrow houses. It glints off the cycle-bestrewn railings and follows you as you rise and fall over the bridges.

I was "fietsing" along a canal on a bike I loved despite being more rust than metal and having a propensity for punctures. The cool wind was in my hair, the sun on my face and I was surrounded by that pleasing combination of canal, narrow houses and gentle bridges. Suddenly it occurred to me I felt more at home here than in any other city I had ever found myself. Not that I belonged, but that here was a place that would happily accommodate me and that I could feel I owned in a way you cannot with larger cities. I was elated that a place could be seemingly as welcoming as a family and that, by accident, I had found a place with air that parted when I cycled through it. I was in such a state of contentedness I barely noticed I had taken my hands off the handle bars.

When I realised, I fought the urge to put them straight back. I made myself take in the achievement I had began writing off as impossible for someone like me. I asked my body what it was doing and it shrugged. It didn't know. It took a few times of doing it to realise that the secret is this: not to try. Just be relaxed, not worry and let the bike do what it does best.

These days I take my hands off the bars every chance I get. Sometimes to show off, I wave them around. When the mood takes me I celebrate the new confident, contented me by gesticulating like an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy, just so that I know I never really did look like that.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Netherlands, Transport, UK, Wildlife

The US is a tipping culture. That is not to say it is a culture on the edge of a precipice, although in some ways that is true. I mean that tipping is a necessary part of social interaction. Much of the business you do will have some sort of tip/reward. It is different in the UK and other parts of Europe where tipping is limited to restaurants and cafes (and is roughly around an accepted mark but variable according to service, and often optional) and for bin men (who get a Christmas gift or else you rubbish isn't cleaned up so well in January). In the US it is customary to leave a gratuity for hotel room cleaners, give bellboys and door persons cash in their hand and even to tip taxi drivers. As a European it feels condescending and unnecessary to tip someone for doing their job, but Catherine assures me it is as part of the culture as haggling is in other cultures. It should be noted that wait staff in the US are often not even paid and rely on the tips which in most of Europe would be illegal.

Despite being one of the shortest flights since the Wright brothers flew for about 10 seconds, Catherine still managed to sleep. She is an inspiration to us all. We nabbed a fixed-price airport shuttle bus (plus tip, of course) to our hotel. The driver didn't speak a great deal of English and my Mandarin is not what it was, but we punched the address in the GPS and strapped ourselves in. On the way, a local also taking the shuttle bus warned us about dodgy areas. Don't go straight on or right out of the hotel, otherwise it was fine. The bus drove via the "straight on" route so we could see it wasn't the most salubrious sections of town. We vowed to avoid it during the small hours of night.

Having dumped our bags and freshened up, we decided to sample some nearby nightlife. We had two bars that seemed close in mind. The first, a blues bar had a Southern Swing band playing. But the $15 cover seemed a bit much for the one drink we were after.

The second place was further than it had seemed on the tiny map. It was closing up as we arrived. It was 10:30. Somehow we had expected better of somewhere of San Francisco's repute. As we wandered back, we saw that many restaurants and bars were closed by 11. It's not quite what we had expected. What WAS open was Borders bookstore and the Virgin record store (which I thought had gone out of business). So you can't get a beer at 10:30, but you can buy a book or classical CD. Is this really the message we want to give our kids?

So instead we grabbed a local beer from the late-night liquor store and partied in the hotel. Well, when I say partied, I mean Cath slept and I wrote jokes. Not being the cleverest of lambs, I had bought a bottle of beer, but had no opener. A sensible man with more attire on would have gone down and asked the porter, instead I used several coins and suffered a few lacerations to my fingers before I was able to get into the well-earned beer. Early settlers who had to wrestle bears for their beer would empathise.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Travel, UK, US

For the next couple of days we had a lay-over at my parents place. It was spent a little bit in a daze, not due to the aforementioned alcohol, but mainly due to still being on Dallas time. But in all it was very, very pleasant to be there, especially as I hadn't been back since possibly last Christmas. We walked the dog; dug into piles of presents and said ciao to my brother's girlfriend's cousins from Italy. We even had a second Christmas dinner, with an even bigger turkey, game pie and a choice of vegetarian and carnivore stuffings.

It was a quick visit, and over before our jetlagged brains could register it. We soon found ourselves being x-rayed, looked up and down and our excess liquids thrown away, all in the hope we'd think something was being done about security.

Bah, Humbug! One and all!

Labels: Christmas, Food, Travel, UK

As I have stated many times before, the fun of air travel isn't really there any more. It's not entirely due to the increased appearance of security but as much to do with the cheap flight revolution that turned us into battery hens.

Even though we were just changing flights at London, we had to pass through extra security because we were now heading to the United States of Severe Restrictions. A guy who had recently been retrained, perhaps from the role of postman or park attendant, went through a checklist of security questions. Because the receipt for my baggage had been attached to the stub of my girlfriend's boarding pass, it caused a slight departure from the list and the guy had to tell me, "I forgot where I was." I was tempted to say, "That was the last question," figuring the force wasn't strong in this one, but then the supervisor might have had to come over and the supervisor looked like he knew something about security. I told the retrainee where he was and he continued. The questions are still somewhere below El Al standards, but they are getting there. They skip around and avoid asking exact questions such as, "have you spoken to anyone with a beard recently?" but you suspect that's what they want to ask.

After you have been asked by someone with an evening class in psychology questions set by a civil servant and your shoes have been x-rayed, you can hurry along to area where you get squashed in together before boarding the plane. I think this area is there to get you acclimatised to breathing other people's exhaled air for 20 minutes before you have to do it in a metal brick that only flies because of the magical qualities of jet engines.

(Science bit: The magical qualities of jet engines are that you fly faster than gravity. Just as gravity is about to pull you down, the plane has moved on and the next bit of gravity tries to get you. And so you continue until you slow down to land and then gravity gets a hold.)

Whilst waiting in the pre-air-sharing room, a succession of names were called out. It seemed to be comedy name day with Herbert Vile, Sarah Hooker and all manner of perfect names for comic novels.

On the plane, as ever, you are required to walk through first and business class to see how much extra space you get there before you go back and climb into your pen. At the back of business an older couple sat with face masks on, presumably to protect them from other people's germs. Putting them on as soon as they were in the plane meant every single pleb on the plane saw them and at the very least gave them a second look. Whilst the lower orders were filing past one way, a stewardess offered them and the other privileged few pre-flight orange juices. They took automatically them before they realised they would have to take their masks off. Now if they'd only kept their masks off until the doors were shut then a) they could have drunk their orange juice and b) they would not have been sniggered at by every one of the lower-class passengers. Once everyone was strapped in, they could put them on and nobody would have known except stewardesses who, quite frankly, have seen it all before.

On the ground Americans do service very, very well. In the air, the Asians are way ahead. We were flying with United where long-haul flights are more about allowing senior cabin staff to go to exotic places than easing your journey with helpful young things poured into award winning uniforms. Fortunately the in-flight entertainment was partially working for my seat, which was better than some had. In my experience, in-flight entertainment provide a distraction only for the first 30 minutes when you try to get it to work, after that you might as we have a egg whisk stuck on the seat in front of you. "Great, an egg whisk. Stewardess, do you have any eggs?" "No."

We arrived later in the same day at Dallas Fort-Worth International Airport and where Catherine and I had to split up to follow different paths. I had the path taken by aliens where I had to be photographed and finger-printed, but at least by a jovial chap. Cath got to join the fast-moving queue where she only had to answer one question, "Have you spoken to anyone with a beard recently?"

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Travel, UK

Christmas is supposedly about many things, but for me it is ultimately a celebration of family. After all, even Jesus spent that first Christmas with his family. Not that he had much choice being only just born. This year it was the turn of Cath's folks in Texas to put up with us. Over the next few days, we'll see how it all went.

Labels: Christmas, Religion, Travel, UK, US

Arriving at Gatwick Airport late Friday evening, I was filled with one impression. We Brits have gotten fat. Everywhere I looked there were obese bodies blocking the way and waddling from MacDonalds to Häagen Grozs and back again. Maybe I'd happened to land at the same time as a flight from Chocohocoland, because it seemed to be even more noticeable that it had been a few months before. But I listened to the accents and they were not Chocoholic, but all very British in all its flavours. The whole population does seem to have broadened.

Of course I'd read the newspapers and seen the TV programmes that have been saying everyone was getting bigger around the middle (not to mention heard the rants of one Jamie Oliver, school nosh critic) but had not been convinced. After all, on TV, everyone was still as skinny as all hell. Even the fat ones on TV are really just slightly podgy and far from obese. But here was proof, larger than lithe. Still, I'm hardly as thin as I used to be. Although perhaps a while yet away from being called a porker.

My understanding is that in the UK the government is fully prepared to listen to nutritionists (and even more so to celebrity chefs) but none of these have their ear in quite the same way as the junk-food people. Plus the current government favours outside companies doing things like the cooking, the owning of the school buildings, selling of the school land and employing of the unvetted maintenance staff. This is mainly to help fiddle their Enron-style accounting but also to be further removed from the blame for anything that goes wrong.

What it also means is that where as in the old days you would have had "school dinner ladies" – grotesque, aging women who would serve up huge vats of slop, with most of the nutrition boiled away - you will now get some underpaid kid, who is probably playing truant from the next school, serving up pre-deep-fried shapes with the nutrition clearly and confusingly labelled on the box, and ensuring more than the recommended weekly intake of vitamin Cholesterol.

This is not the full picture, because it's not just the kids, as I'd been lead to expect, but their parents also whose hips seem to be reaching a size that in Italy they would call "Fiat." That I don't have a theory for. Yet. But am considering blaming Big Brother or Myspace.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Travel, UK

The Netherlands is one of those small countries were within a couple of degrees of separation you know pretty much everyone. In fact if I go out in Amsterdam for more than a couple of hours and don't meet or see someone, I feel something is wrong. Also it often happens that on the flight I am taking or at the airport I bump into someone with whom I am familiar. This time I was recognised by a stewardess from a combination of the easylaughs shows and last year's Theatersports Weekend. We didn't get to talk too much as she was at work and constantly had to dish out things to people to take their minds off the fact they are defying some of the most immutable laws in science.

One of the best things that has been developed for airline passengers is the map that allows you to follow the flight. It doesn't serve any real purpose, but it really gives you a feeling you are involved. Makes you feel that you are not being carried around like freight but that you are part of the navigation crew. The other great thing is the digital film system that allows you to select a film to watch and start watching it when you want to. Not only that, you can pause it and speed past the bits life is too short for. In the old days (and on older aircraft), there was one big screen at the front which showed some inane family movie usually starring Macauley Culkin. The flight map is itself is not often much of a lesson in geography, but it shows interesting things, such as reminding one that the name Aberystwyth (Wales) is so long it almost covers up the town of Shannon (Ireland). I have often wondered in long nights in the air whether the inhabitants of Shannon have ever requested that the inhabitants of Aberystwyth shorten or move their name.

1 minute reviews:
Black Dahlia: Necessarily simplified version of the James Ellroy novel. Adequate, modern stab at Film Noir lacking substance but containing Scarlett Johansson.
On The Waterfront: Classic, noirish, small-time gangster film that offers some excellent performances and a pretty realistic story almost until the end.

Coffee at high altitudes tastes like mud. I have had the coffee on a variety of airlines, at a variety of heights, and every time it tastes exactly like mud. I assume there is nothing the scientists can do to make it taste anything like coffee. Things do not bode well for serious space travel.

Labels: Comedy, Drink, Movies, Netherlands, Travel, UK

By Christmas, stories about Christmas being ruined by a deadly, killer fog had long since stopped filling the TV and newspapers. It seemed Christmas might happen after all.

Christmases at my parents involve far too much food, far too many presents and far too much time watching TV. They're great. It's nice to spend time with whatever of the family is around and catch up on British TV. It's also a time to reflect that 2000 years ago a small child was born who would grow up to be a very popular speaker and change the course of history through being deified by his followers. In time these followers kidnapped the date and trappings of a pagan festival to celebrate this event and this too was kidnapped by the world of commerce. We should always take time to remember this, the magic that is Christmas. Merry Christmas everyone!

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, TV, UK

Some more last minute shopping to get those last few gifts. All of the towns around where my parents live seem to have one thing in common. Every other shop is a charity shop. From Oxfam to Help the Aged to Wieners without Schnitzels, every charity is represented. I don't really know why there should be so many but one thing is for sure, January is probably the best month for receiving second-hand things to sell.

Labels: Christmas, Shopping, Travel, UK

Being an atheist and reluctant consumerist who dislikes unnecessary ritual and detests shopping, Christmas isn't exactly my thing. It's a time for Children to get spoilt and toy manufacturers to get richer. In many ways my ideal Christmas would be to drink myself into the New Year with a few like-minded fellows at Bar Humbug. It is not to trail desperately around shops where every surface has been draped with tinsel. Unfortunately, Bar Humbug does not exist and at Christmas, no store is allowed to trade by law unless every surface is covered in tinsel.

My second choice for Christmas would be to spend it at the airport entertained by clowns.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

The strain of working, packing, travelling and shopping seemed to finally catch up with me and stole most of my energy. That on top of somehow pulling some chest muscles between Amsterdam and East Hoathley. None of this is in any way related to the ageing process, okay.

So instead of travelling up to London, which was proving to be complicated anyway from this part of the world, I hibernated for an evening.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

The newspaper and TV stories are full of how Christmas has been ruined by the fog. It seems for everybody the day will be completely ruined, even though by my calculation only a small % of people will be travelling at this time. In fact logically most people will have a Christmas as normal this year and should not be affected by it and even those who do suffer, they should still be able to be where they need to be in time for the day itself not to be ruined. But if both the newspapers and the TV agrees Christmas will be ruined by BA cancelling flights then I must be wrong and have already started to burn the presents I have already bought.

Had a pleasant visit from my There-is-no-God Child and her mum. It's great to see that although we all lose energy as we get older, it can be passed on to one's children.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

Christmas was definitely in the air this morning. Ordinary things were talking much, much longer than usual and people were already bubbling with that most Christmassy of emotions, anger. In fact, I've never seen so many short-tempered people squeezed into one place. The reason, other than the proximity to the dreaded day, was a romantically seasonable layer of fog that stretched across the British countryside. Because of this, planes to and from the UK were subject to delay and / or cancellation. And to ease people through this was the good, old Dutch customer service.

In Dutch, customer service is an oxymoron. It exists only in tourist haunts and the odd up-market shop or restaurant. Elsewhere, if it is the barmaid's cigarette break, you'll have to wait for your beer or if something you brought is broken, then (a) that's a shame and (b) why are you bothering the person who sold it to you with this?

Ironically, in the run-up to Sinterklaas and Christmas nearly all shops will wrap ANYTHING you say is a present. They take their time and wrap it properly, and better than I ever could. It seems incongruous but actually its very annoying for the people behind them in the queue. I am sure they only do it as a way to work without actually having to serve a customer. I know I would.

There were obviously a lot of Brits waiting for flights, for whom bad temper is usually just under the surface but then again only usually emerges as muttering or saying something sarcastic or ridiculously lame but indignantly. I remember being stuck in a crush in London slowly filtering out of a station at 8:40 am when someone seethed, "I'm trying to get to work." I had to bite my tongue not to say, "really? I'm here for fun." It wouldn't have helped.

But also there seemed to be a lot of Americans. Americans tend to have even more anger bubbling away, plus have the added annoyance that they are spoon-fed good (and often over-the-top) service back home so that the Netherlands can be a bit of a culture shock. A land where "Hi, I'm Candy and I'll be excited to help you today," translates to "Yes, what?"

We managed to get checked in after first joining a queue that turned out to be the wrong one after we grilled a man handing out pieces of paper with ambiguous instructions. The queue was for people with connecting flights and they were not a bouncy bunch. The same guy went did some giggling and got the self-service check-in computers to work so that we could get to the slow-moving Fast Drop-in desks. I think because the word 'fast' was above them, people were even more frustrated, even though their flight was delayed by two hours and so they had plenty of time. After this passport control was a doddle (easy).

I must point out that there were not nearly the number of people and not nearly the same depth of emotions as experienced in the British airports where for a few days before Christmas they whole thing came to a crashing halt and people had to hang around in tents in the freezing cold. And instead of paying for heating, they hired a few street performers to go around and cheer people up. When you're cold and pissed off the last thing in the world you want to see is a juggling mime. I don’t know what they were thinking. So actually we had it pretty good in comparison. Especially as we were ourselves very laid back about it. It was 5 days until Christmas, after all.

Very recently, Europe brought in new security regulations. As with previous ones they don't deal directly with security and are more designed to (a) make it look like security has been stepped up and (b) give the little men in big uniforms at the security desks more specific instructions to follows. Probably so they don’t have to spend so much money training them.

For example it wasn't clear why the tube of hand cream left in the luggage was dangerous and had to be gleefully thrown away by a glorified night-club bouncer where as had we remembered it was in the bag and put it in one of the sealable plastic bags it would have been safe. The only explanation the guy had was that those were the rules and laid a piece of paper in front of me explaining what the rules were but probably was very vague on how actually the rules help make things safer. When I threw the piece of paper away, it got placed back in front of me with great purpose. I should have been glad something had a purpose.

I have a theory that the level of X-rays has been increased many-fold in the machines and can now turn small quantities of liquid radioactive if they are not put in the lead-lined bags provided. That's my theory as not much else makes sense.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, UK

After the seven trials of seven brothers, or whatever the myth is, we made it to the venue. Most London comedy venues are either upstairs in a pub or they are downstairs in a pub. This one was downstairs in bar I would describe as trendy, that is large and characterless. It was a reminder, after a few days of drinking “real ale,” that in more popular places the bitters tend to be simply lagers with a little colouring and flavouring.

The space was a great one for comedy. A long cave-like room with a bar at the back so that it doesn’t interfere with the stage. You’d be amazed how many times the bar is almost in the way of the stage or so close that anyone ordering a drink or cleaning glasses disrupts the comedian.

First up was Gordon Southern, a consistent comedian (based on one performance) who had the crowd from the word go. He was followed by John Gordillo, who is one of those comedians whose ideas are often better than the realisation. It made him less consistent but he did well and I expect does great with highly intelligent audiences. Not to denigrate the audience this night. They were pretty smart for a bunch of drunken Brits.

The headliner was Jason John Whitehead, a Canadian who for a long time has been running around these shores. He was late due to driving in London, so John Gordillo filled in for a bit. Jason John Whitehead’s act is that of a drunk Canadian in awe and bemused at thing British. It’s a good stance to take here. And I am sure if the audience had been more forgiving for his tardiness and he had had more time to mentally prepare himself rather than being stuck in traffic, it would have gone a whole lot better. As it was the Bank-Holiday audience was up for it and enjoyed it but not as much as it had earlier.

When the audience has left and the first two comedians had gone home or onto their next gig, the organisers could start breathing again. It was time to head out and have a final beer or two. Now, in my absence, I am sure I had been told that there was now 24-hour drinking in the UK. As a result of this, the sleasepapers had predicted drunken riots on our streets 24-7, under-age girls drowning in seas of vomit, etc. But you try finding a bar open after 11 pm. We couldn’t. Sure it was a Sunday, but it was a bank holiday, thus of a similar status to Saturday. Where is the 24-hour beer culture? Where are my riots? Where is the sea of vomit? Tsk.

The return journey was uneventful. A medium length tube ride followed by a very short bus ride to get to the half-closed station and finally a brief walk to get to the hotel where we collapsed in out 4-star wardrobe.

Should you wish to go to a The Funny Side show, check out: www.tickets-please.co.uk/thefunnyside.

Labels: Comedy, Drink, Transport, Travel, UK

Getting around in London is one of the main problems I have with the city. It’s vast, over-filled and there are always bits of the transport infrastructure that are bunged up or just plain broken.

Driving is nearly always a bad idea except late at night.
Buses are plentiful and their redness likens them to the life-blood of London However London is grossly overweight and smokes heavily so that clotting and coronaries are frequent.
Black cabs are expensive and tend to be driven by people for whom Margaret Thatcher was a liberal.
Minicabs are driven by murderers, rapists, hijackers or if you’re very lucky merely someone without a driving licence and with no idea of the geography of London.
The underground on the whole is pretty good, if a tad expensive. It goes to most places and is quite efficient when it is running. Mostly it is running, but every now and again there is a hiccup. Because of the colour and general cleanliness of the underground trains, the underground could be considered the intestines of London. However London is a bizarre body where the intestines are a much better way to get around than the bloodstream. Unfortunately there are definitely times where the system gets very constipated.

Today it wasn’t constipation causing problems but surgery. Surgery on a busy section during a bank holiday weekend. Lancaster Gate was finally having some repairs / renovations, probably first recommended in the 1940s. Quite possibly the gasmask cupboard was having a new door fitted or something like that. Consequently, the station was open... but it was closed. I’ll repeat that: it was open... but it was closed. That is, you could walk in and buy tickets but not go down to the trains and actually use them. If you made a move towards the barriers, one of the four-or-so London Underground Ground Staff (LUGS) hanging around there rushed over and told you the station was closed. After a while, they cottoned onto the idea of telling people before they went into the station and bought a ticket. Fortunately London’s transport systems are a little bit integrated and if you bought an underground ticket there is often provision to use them on buses, especially when chunks of the intestine is blocked or being operated on by the good doctors at Laing. Anyway we had a travelcard each which works on any public transport. Thus we were able to hop on one of the intermittently frequent buses to the next working station.

All this happened after we were already one hour late so we were not very “chuffed” as they say. Eventually, after riding the underground, which has not changed one bit in the 5 years I have been away, we arrived at Covent Garden, Tourist Market and collection point for London’s street performers.

Labels: Travel, UK

After a long lunch, it was time once more to hit the road. This time to head for the sprawling metropole of London. We made good time until we hit the confines of “Greater” London and then I remembered everything I hated about driving in that huge car-trap. From then on things took twice as long as expected. There’s just too much traffic in London and too little space between the traffic lights. It wasn’t clogging up, just running slowly and of course the fact that in London there are four traffic lights for every person, or so it seems. It was a bit of a surprise as I was expecting the streets to be empty as everyone was in Brighton. Clearly the people heading to Brighton were not from South London.

We had booked a hotel at the last minute, realising the folly of not staying in London for that night only once we had arrived in the country. We booked on lastminute.com. Actually we nearly didn’t book it as we were not given any details about where the hotel was exactly or what it was called until we had booked making it seem very dodgy. All we knew was its approximate location, cost, its facilities and the number of stars. Only upon coughing up the readies did its name and address get revealed. It turned out to be a 4-star student halls with rooms that were fully equipped if a little small. But as it was just somewhere to crash out, all it needed was a bed anyway, but you do get used to hotel rooms of being a certain size.

In the time it took to check in and swoop the stuff up to the room and fly back down to put the car somewhere more legal, – a matter of a few minutes – a uniformed henchman of the local council had shot out of hiding on his motorbike and was already producing a written demand for money from his Fine-o-matic and had already added his α to it.

It took me a few seconds to realise he was producing the aforementioned ‘PENALTY CHARGE NOTICE’ for my vehicle which had been there for no time at all. He must have been hiding in the bushes just down the road or under a pebble.

I explained that I hadn’t been in long and was in part asking where I could park. But once the Fine-o-matic has printed a ‘PENALTY CHARGE NOTICE’, there is nothing a mere Pouncing Form Printer can do. To placate me, he lied that I could call the number on the ‘PENALTY CHARGE NOTICE’ and have it cancelled. In fact I had to write a letter, which is
here. I’ll let you know if I hear back.

I was somewhat annoyed by this incident, but didn’t really blame the hiding motorcycle guy. I know how those jobs work. The guy is paid per fine placed regardless of if they are overturned or not. So swooping out of the undergrowth to slap a fine on a car that is still warm makes sense to the guy than hanging around and seeing if this is really the car or a parking offender or not. The council, of course, sets the rules. They make them simple so they do not have to employ skilled traffic wardens with the patience and experience to assess the situation correctly rather than taking on kids with motorbikes who slap a ticket on anything that doesn’t move. I blame the “arms-length,” dumbed-down world we live in.

Labels: Travel, UK

Another meet-up with my nephew and his parents and grand-parents. Not that I got much of a chance to discuss modern music, philosophy or the decline of literary standards in the celebrity era as the little feller was asleep most of the time. When he was awake, he eschewed beer, pub grub and conversation in favour of ultra-fresh milk. Not very sociable, but I guess it’s hard to be sociable when you can’t focus and most of your life’s experience so far has been closed up in a warm place and fed through a tube.

The garden of the pub we chose was at the base of a large hill steep enough for handgliderers to throw themselves off. Several were doing it as we arrived. Along one side of the garden runs a stream that springs from, well, a spring. The garden is on a slope that would be impossible in The Netherlands, possibly even illegal.

It had taken a longish time to get to the pub because the world, his wife, their kids and dog were heading down to Brighton. A continuous plod of cars heading sarf meant that anyone else had to find their moment to get across a key roundabout.

Apart from the fame of the beach, and that Brighton itself is well know for its aging and homosexual population, today was also the list day of the Brighton Festival. And arts and theatre festival which is lower key and less commercial that its Edinburgh counterpart.

Labels: Drink, Travel, UK

Since she first read about it, my better and more significant other half has been raving about the ideas and ideals behind The Fat Duck restaurant. Its owner is one of cuisine’s innovators, forcing flavours into textures and forms not normally associated with each other. His menus read like the unlikely foods of twisted future. His plans, such as attempts to make leather-flavoured chocolate, sound like the plans of a demented scientist. Or culinary dominatrix.

With such an interest expressed, we could not go back to the UK without visiting the place. Even on the plane over there was an article in the in flight magazine on the place and Catherine re-expressed that it was her dream to go there, but in a way that suggested it was impossible. I said “oh” the same nonchalant way men do when they haven’t really forgotten that today is an anniversary. I already knew that there was a table for two waiting for us the morning after our arrival.

Sample Menu (similar to what we had).

The meal starts with a palate cleanser. Not a glass of mineral water or crisp salad or anything as conventional like that. No, of course not. It was an infusion of ice cream, tea and vodka solidified in liquid nitrogen - the waiter solidifies it at the table in front of you. And the thing is, it really works. From now on I demand my palette cleansed this way every time I eat.

The surprising thing is how much of it works. Bacon and Egg Ice Cream is a true wonder of modern culinary technology and Snail Porridge should become a standard on any serious restaurant’s menu. The other thing is how playful a serious chef can be. There were rounds of Orange and Carrot Lollypops, Pine-Flavoured Sherbet Dib Dabs and Parsley Flakes served with Radish Milk in the style of a breakfast cereal.

I have never paid so much for a meal in my life but on the other hand this was no ordinary meal. If most cafés are a bus ride, a good restaurant a limousine ride, this was a full luxury adventure holiday for the tongue. The sitting took 3.5 hours and was finished off with tea which was hot on one side of the glass and cold on the other.

Labels: Food, Travel, UK

When airports grow beyond a certain size, planning becomes a strain to a point where the cracks can be seen. Checking in to Schiphol for a flight to the UK, we found ourselves directed to Departure 3. “That’s odd,” think we, “isn’t it normally Departure 1? I guess we must be departing from the other end of the complex.”
Alas, no. Departure was from the same bunch of gates UK flights normally escape from, much nearer (although still some distance from) Departure 1. Are airports trying to make us slimmer so that they can even further reduce the width of chairs?

Have you ever seen one of those cartoons where they loop the background so that they don’t have to draw so much during a long moving sequence? Airports are like that. After a few hundred meters or so, the shops start repeating themselves. And quite frankly if you didn’t want 3 litres of Chanel No 5 150 meters back, it’s unlikely you have changed your mind now. And even if you did it is only 150 meters back to the shop that was selling it. I have a theory that the shops in airports are really just a sort of 3D wallpaper. Some of them, like the perfumeries cannot be real shops. Nobody wants 3 litres of Chanel No 5, and even if they did they wouldn’t buy it 20 minutes before going on a plane and they wouldn’t want to spend twice as much as it costs in a regular shop for it even if they don’t have to pay tax on it. I’d rather pay less and give some money to the government. After all, they always seem to need it more than I do.

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The country is building up to the world cup. Every car seems to have one or two English flags flying from it. That’s the English flag of St George comprising a single red cross on a white backdrop.

These flags are attached to the car at the top of the door which means the window must be open a little bit. This makes the World Cup a bonanza time for car thieves and radio snatchers. Let’s hope people are insured against crime invited by acts of patriotism.

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We were staying in an East Sussex village where my parents are camping on the outskirts of awaiting to buy a house there. (It’s a long-ish story.) East Hoathly is a cute village centred – it seems – around a wonderful pub with the kind of French chef that would be all but kidnapped in a Wodehouse novel.

We stayed in an extremely friendly B&B next door to the inn, and having checked in discussed local history with the informed proprietress. After this, we marched next door to devour a well-executed duck and salmon (separately) and to await the arrival of my parents who were delayed due to one of the complexities of moving out of ones old house before the new one is secured. Unfortunately they arrived shortly after the chef had hung up his toque and were forced to dine on “fried tuber thins in a cheese and onion flavour dusting served in a sachet plastique.”

It being super-quiet in the village, I slept like the proverbial log.

Labels: Anthropology, Sport, Travel, UK

Security at airports has always been a high priority in the UK, quite important in Europe and is now even done in the US. It is done best on Israeli El Al flights. This is because El Al is Arabic for "Bomb me!"

But things are getting more like that. Hand luggage going to the UK from Europe gets X-rayed twice, customs officers have pistols and the police patrol with guns that could take out a tank. The door marked El Al is guarded by soldiers.

The easyJet check-in area is the last line of check-in desks at the far end of the last of the departures halls. If their status were any lower there, the check-in would be a broom closet in the basement marked, "Do Not Enter."

Today more bombs went off in London. That is to say some detonators went off but it looks like someone forgot the bombs. Somewhere Al-Arry is poking Mo(hammed) and saying "Why you numbskull!"

Labels: Travel, UK, US

Recently I went back to the UK for a long weekend. Having done some calculations, it works out that the last time I was back in Blighty was nearly a year ago. Shocking considering how close it is and how cheap and convenient flights can be. Easyjet, if you book them far enough in advance, practically pay you to fly them, and Ryan Air tickets cost less than sweets, although the tax rate then is about 5,000%.

Ryan Air flies to and from Eindhoven rather than Schiphol airport. Schiphol is 15 minutes from Amsterdam, Eindhoven over an hour. However, given the amount of taxiing time the airplane needs, I do wonder if the plane drives to Eindhoven to actually take off and land.

In the UK, they have long since found the solution to needing more runways to service the city - make out that any airport within a 300 mile radius is IN London. Not only is Stansted in London, but so is Luton and I am looking forward to the day when I come in to Glasgow Airport, London. Or even when I take off from Schiphol Airport, London to fly over The New Thames (formerly The English Channel) and land at Heathrow East Terminal (formerly Gatwick Airport).

Labels: Travel, UK

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, Netherlands, UK