Saturday, November 15, 2008 at 3:02pm
Last week I was lucky enough to go away for the weekend, courtesy of my wife.I knew we were “going somewhere” but didn’t know where. Rachael kept it a complete secret, but that didn’t stop me asking every question under the sun about whether we were staying the UK, going abroad, flying abroad, whether it was somewhere we’d been together before, somewhere I’d been before. When the time came to leave, we jumped into my car.
“How long is the drive going to be?” I asked, thinking that I’d be able to tell based on the distance to the airport. “Stop trying, I’m not telling you.” Eventually I gave up, and distracted myself by wondering how long it would be until I’d see my old friend, food, again for breakfast instead. I soon got used to the idea that I wasn’t going to find out until the very last minute. After all, not knowing was more fun, anyway. In order to keep the secret going as much as possible, I stared at the floor as we waited at the gate to board. It must have looked dodgy that I couldn’t look the airline attendant in the eye when I handed her my passport and boarding pass. It must have been doubly suspicious when Rachael practically shouted, “whatever you do, just don’t look up!!!”
As I walked down the walkway to the plane, I found myself rudely staring at the other passengers to try and work out where they were from, and as a businessman walked past us on his mobile, I found myself cocking my ears towards him to hear his accent. French. Most definitely. Must be Paris. Get in! Can’t really go wrong with Paris. Rachael noticed and asked me to stop trying to spoil the surprise for myself. Too late.
So on we shuffled, and I couldn’t help but analyse every complexion, mannerism and word from the passengers in the seats as we passed them. Most of them looked Spanish. That scuppered my guess. Bugger, I realised, I really had no idea.Whenever I travel, I take literally everything I could ever want to use on the plane with me in my hand luggage. Since I’m lazy, this usually means stuffing the two or three magazines, books, mp3 player, camera and DS all into the seat pocket in front., anything to avoid standing up and redistributing my bags. I’m usually the last person standing up in the cabin as a result. The sooner I realise that the resulting lack of legroom could be avoidable by stretching my legs a bit, the better. As we sat waiting patiently for takeoff, I stared out at the bright, but low sun streaming across hangars, planes and vehicles of the runway area around the airport.
Glass on windows glinted as we taxied through to our takeoff point and I was excited about the unknown. I hadn’t really had a chance to look forward to the weekend until we arrived at Terminal 5 that morning, so my mind had suddenly gone into overdrive. I tried to think of all the places we could be going. I couldn’t help but start to wonder which locations I’d rather be going to, and came up with two; Paris and Rome.
One, the most romantic city in the world, the other, one of the richest in history. Identifying two of my favourites was potentially a bad idea, as the list of possible choices was relatively high and it was likely I’d be disappointed. Thankfully, I needn’t have worried, as the captain soon advised us on the flight time to Paris, and how the weather was somewhat different to the bright day we were having. Somewhat different, indeed. I believe that somewhere inside me, I am receptive to learning new languages, and I find myself remembering allsorts of words and phrases from several different countries. I was most confident with French though, as I’d studied that for my GCSEs. I could even assume a mean accent.
So, as we sat in a tiny restaurant just south of the River Seine that night, menus in hand, waitress hovering with pen at the ready, I was ready to put my five years of (albeit non attentive) study into practise, I realised that I had, in fact, remembered nothing. “Je voudrais, er…Rachael, what’s the French for glass?” Out comes the guidebook. She flicks to the Useful Phrases section at the back and quickly retrieves the word. “Verre”, she whispers, not looking up, perhaps not wanting to see me in pain.“Right, thanks.” Bear in mind, the waitress, the only one in this busy restaurant in the heart of Paris, is still standing waiting patiently for me to order. Rachael still hasn’t looked up. “Je voudrais deux verre du vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”
Perhaps not perfect, perhaps not in order, and maybe it did take several moments to get it out, but I was damn proud of myself. I was practically a local. Not so proud though when the waitress nods, and says in English, “Thank you sir, which white wine would you like, and is that a large or small glass?”I would probably have had more success if I'd have tried moonwalking across the English Channel.The fact that EVERYONE seems to speak English cannot be a good incentive for the British to learn another language. Everytime I ask a Frenchman if they speak English, everytime, they politely say, usually with a slight shrug, “A little,” perhaps in mortal fear of a deep conversation about Nietzsche. I wouldn’t give up though, I tried it several times over the weekend, usually forgetting half the words I thought I’d known before starting the conversation. No wonder my poor wife always sighs when I try and speak Spanish, which I know even less of. Surely though, it’s better to try and speak the language, even when you know full well they speak perfect English?I can’t remember half the things I’d learned about grammar anyway, which is the glue that binds all the other words together.
My memory in general is getting far worse than it used to be. I know now what Paul McCartney was thinking of when he called his last album “Memory Almost Full.” The fact he must be well into his sixties has nothing at all to do with it. I’d gladly swap all the other phrases I’d learned (in German and Japanese as well as the lyrics to the entire REM back catalog that I’d stored away in the dark recesses of my head) for some fluency in one language, but it doesn’t work like that, sadly. I can’t even finish one sentence. The worst thing is when you visit a new country, having worked out a few phrases, and successfully reel off a line or two. The listener then stares you in the eye, and then starts a fully blown conversation about the weather, exposing me as the fraud I am. Worst still, in Japan, I’ve literally been laughed at.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Regime Change at Big Brother's House.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at 2:53pm
I learned everything I know now about British politics in my year 10 and 11 History classes with Mr Jones. And I've forgotten about it steadily ever since. Labour were always romanticised in my at school as the party of the people (not these other stuffy toffs I'd seen in the media), responsible for trade unions and the NHS. So it made sense to me to vote for them when the time came in May 1997.
I listened to what both parties said (through the squabbling, it was difficult), and ended up choosing Labour, most people did, to be sure. The media played a massive part in getting us 'yoof' involved when all I really cared about was beer and football at the time. After all, I didn't identify with John Major or a government that had been unable to stop us going into recession and had sent our troops off to war in the middle-east. Voting was also one of those things you had to be an adult to do, which made me want to do it more; you couldn't lie about your age to the electoral register like you could the gentleman in the corner shop next to Goff's Park before skipping off with a two-litre bottle of Thunderbirds cider.Its easy to care about politics when you're young, though. How one person can change the course of history by voting and that your government will always make the right decision for its people. I don't feel that way anymore. I've been let down too many times by decisions that I don't think represent either my own opinion or the moral choice. But, you can't moan about the government unless you use your vote. They say. I still have the voter apathy, though. Things can only get better.
I met Tony Blair once on the campaign trail in Crawley's town square. I shook his hand and wished him luck. He signed a leaflet for me. I didn't read it of course, all I cared about was that the headers, text and between the lines said:"Lots of change, more dynamic government, no more John Major, BLAH BLAH" Plus I thought it would be worth something later. Eleven years later, the ex-chancellor is in office, and we're entering a global recession. Our troops are 'keeping peace' in the middle-east and confidence is pretty low. I'd wager that come next election, David Cameron will have the keys to number ten. It turned out that Tony Blair's legacy hadn't fared any better than Major's.
Change and lack of confidence seems to be the biggest reason to vote these days. All I really want is stability and prosperity - I couldn't care less who's in power.Barack Obama's election as the first black president marks a historic sea change for a country that only 50 years ago wouldn't allow black people to mix with white people in restaurants. For that reason alone we should all be very, very happy about what's just happened. He'll probably turn into the devil incarnate eventually - because, let's face it, things are pretty bad now, but they could still get worse.
For now at least, let's revel in how history was made last night. America are, like it or not, guardians of peace, elected or otherwise, so having anyone but Bush in the Whitehouse is a good thing. So, well done America, you've finally earned my vote. Let's hope its not a case of New Labour, New Danger.
I learned everything I know now about British politics in my year 10 and 11 History classes with Mr Jones. And I've forgotten about it steadily ever since. Labour were always romanticised in my at school as the party of the people (not these other stuffy toffs I'd seen in the media), responsible for trade unions and the NHS. So it made sense to me to vote for them when the time came in May 1997.
I listened to what both parties said (through the squabbling, it was difficult), and ended up choosing Labour, most people did, to be sure. The media played a massive part in getting us 'yoof' involved when all I really cared about was beer and football at the time. After all, I didn't identify with John Major or a government that had been unable to stop us going into recession and had sent our troops off to war in the middle-east. Voting was also one of those things you had to be an adult to do, which made me want to do it more; you couldn't lie about your age to the electoral register like you could the gentleman in the corner shop next to Goff's Park before skipping off with a two-litre bottle of Thunderbirds cider.Its easy to care about politics when you're young, though. How one person can change the course of history by voting and that your government will always make the right decision for its people. I don't feel that way anymore. I've been let down too many times by decisions that I don't think represent either my own opinion or the moral choice. But, you can't moan about the government unless you use your vote. They say. I still have the voter apathy, though. Things can only get better.
I met Tony Blair once on the campaign trail in Crawley's town square. I shook his hand and wished him luck. He signed a leaflet for me. I didn't read it of course, all I cared about was that the headers, text and between the lines said:"Lots of change, more dynamic government, no more John Major, BLAH BLAH" Plus I thought it would be worth something later. Eleven years later, the ex-chancellor is in office, and we're entering a global recession. Our troops are 'keeping peace' in the middle-east and confidence is pretty low. I'd wager that come next election, David Cameron will have the keys to number ten. It turned out that Tony Blair's legacy hadn't fared any better than Major's.
Change and lack of confidence seems to be the biggest reason to vote these days. All I really want is stability and prosperity - I couldn't care less who's in power.Barack Obama's election as the first black president marks a historic sea change for a country that only 50 years ago wouldn't allow black people to mix with white people in restaurants. For that reason alone we should all be very, very happy about what's just happened. He'll probably turn into the devil incarnate eventually - because, let's face it, things are pretty bad now, but they could still get worse.
For now at least, let's revel in how history was made last night. America are, like it or not, guardians of peace, elected or otherwise, so having anyone but Bush in the Whitehouse is a good thing. So, well done America, you've finally earned my vote. Let's hope its not a case of New Labour, New Danger.
Mock the Week.
Sunday, November 2, 2008 at 12:05pm
Here’s what’s happened in the last week.
1) All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey.The leaves changed from green to red to yellow and soon they’ll all miraculously find their way onto my front lawn. I was in Reading yesterday and the Christmas decorations are all up. The stores are playing Christmas songs and all the gift packs are out in force. The greatest hits albums are creeping into the new release CD racks and my lips are chapped. What happened to the Indian Summer we were all being promised? It’s still Autumn, only just November, but the world suddenly got brr-brr cold and nights have drawn in. That happened quickly, didn’t it?
2) Daniel is still in the running on the X Factor. I’m enjoying this year’s series. I think the talent on the show is worth watching, and it’s been one of the best series I’ve seen. Never mind that I haven’t watched the show for ages as I’ve been sulking because I didn’t get an audition. For two whole years.
However, the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting there wincing at some seriously bum notes from usually entertaining contestants and then find myself staring wide-eyed in disbelief when the judges virtually knee in front of them and undo their flies. I really think I need to get my ears tested, because I’m not hearing what they’re praising. Is there a flip-side affliction to being tone-deaf? Call me cynical, but it’s obvious that some talent isn’t the only thing that keeps people in - it’s marketability and votes. Imagine that loads of voters are backing one singer and then they have a duff week. You’re probably not going to vote that week. Now imagine you’re a judge and have inside track on how many votes each singer is getting each week, you’re going to want to affect people’s views and inclination to vote. “That was the best thing I’ve heard all evening Eoghan.”
3) Russell Brand is now the devil. It’s Friday night, not so long ago. The end credits from the Friday night with Jonathan Ross show are on, and I’ve had a couple of beers to toast the end of the week. I’m still licking my lips from the sweet and sour sauce that just keeps on giving back and I’m thinking that I enjoy these shows. They have the right balance of humour and current affairs, great guests and (usually) great music. If you asked me to name some of my favourite interviews on the show, I could probably wax lyrical down the pub about it without getting distracted for at least an hour. Come to think of it, I also trust his Film 20XX reviews and loved the Japanarama series he did about Japan. He also likes his games and mentioned Virtua Tennis once on a Friday night. That gives him god-like status and probably makes him one of the best things about the BBC. Now pretend I didn’t just say that. Pretend I’m not really bothered about the show, and I’m a grumpy sod, reading the paper in my suit one morning, hating the fact I’ve got to go to my job in the city on a Sunday. I drain the last bitter sips of my coffee, pick up my brand new Blackberry Storm and flick my £1000 watch up so it doesn’t dangle annoyingly around my wrist. Normally I do like it hanging there so all my colleagues can see just how much it cost, but today, it’s really getting in the way. I’m just pulling my silk scarf around my neck when I see a headline about Andrew Sachs, BBC, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand and I sit back down. I skim read the article and make a note about how I must complain about this outrage. I have a right, I pay my TV license fee and shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of abuse. It doesn’t matter that the incident occurred a week ago and I didn’t even hear the offending show. I want to be counted. Besides, I used to love Fawlty Towers.I’ll be honest, I prefer Ross’ TV stuff and don’t listen to Brand's radio show, so I didn’t hear the offending show about Andrew Sachs and his granddaughter. I, like everyone else, heard it second-hand from another source, news/radio/paper/internet (delete as appropriate). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like what they did, but did it really deserve so many headlines, and the public hanging these guys have got? I’m so bored of it now. What’s next? The US presidential elections? First black president? Now that’s a headline worth reading.
Here’s what’s happened in the last week.
1) All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey.The leaves changed from green to red to yellow and soon they’ll all miraculously find their way onto my front lawn. I was in Reading yesterday and the Christmas decorations are all up. The stores are playing Christmas songs and all the gift packs are out in force. The greatest hits albums are creeping into the new release CD racks and my lips are chapped. What happened to the Indian Summer we were all being promised? It’s still Autumn, only just November, but the world suddenly got brr-brr cold and nights have drawn in. That happened quickly, didn’t it?
2) Daniel is still in the running on the X Factor. I’m enjoying this year’s series. I think the talent on the show is worth watching, and it’s been one of the best series I’ve seen. Never mind that I haven’t watched the show for ages as I’ve been sulking because I didn’t get an audition. For two whole years.
However, the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting there wincing at some seriously bum notes from usually entertaining contestants and then find myself staring wide-eyed in disbelief when the judges virtually knee in front of them and undo their flies. I really think I need to get my ears tested, because I’m not hearing what they’re praising. Is there a flip-side affliction to being tone-deaf? Call me cynical, but it’s obvious that some talent isn’t the only thing that keeps people in - it’s marketability and votes. Imagine that loads of voters are backing one singer and then they have a duff week. You’re probably not going to vote that week. Now imagine you’re a judge and have inside track on how many votes each singer is getting each week, you’re going to want to affect people’s views and inclination to vote. “That was the best thing I’ve heard all evening Eoghan.”
3) Russell Brand is now the devil. It’s Friday night, not so long ago. The end credits from the Friday night with Jonathan Ross show are on, and I’ve had a couple of beers to toast the end of the week. I’m still licking my lips from the sweet and sour sauce that just keeps on giving back and I’m thinking that I enjoy these shows. They have the right balance of humour and current affairs, great guests and (usually) great music. If you asked me to name some of my favourite interviews on the show, I could probably wax lyrical down the pub about it without getting distracted for at least an hour. Come to think of it, I also trust his Film 20XX reviews and loved the Japanarama series he did about Japan. He also likes his games and mentioned Virtua Tennis once on a Friday night. That gives him god-like status and probably makes him one of the best things about the BBC. Now pretend I didn’t just say that. Pretend I’m not really bothered about the show, and I’m a grumpy sod, reading the paper in my suit one morning, hating the fact I’ve got to go to my job in the city on a Sunday. I drain the last bitter sips of my coffee, pick up my brand new Blackberry Storm and flick my £1000 watch up so it doesn’t dangle annoyingly around my wrist. Normally I do like it hanging there so all my colleagues can see just how much it cost, but today, it’s really getting in the way. I’m just pulling my silk scarf around my neck when I see a headline about Andrew Sachs, BBC, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand and I sit back down. I skim read the article and make a note about how I must complain about this outrage. I have a right, I pay my TV license fee and shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of abuse. It doesn’t matter that the incident occurred a week ago and I didn’t even hear the offending show. I want to be counted. Besides, I used to love Fawlty Towers.I’ll be honest, I prefer Ross’ TV stuff and don’t listen to Brand's radio show, so I didn’t hear the offending show about Andrew Sachs and his granddaughter. I, like everyone else, heard it second-hand from another source, news/radio/paper/internet (delete as appropriate). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like what they did, but did it really deserve so many headlines, and the public hanging these guys have got? I’m so bored of it now. What’s next? The US presidential elections? First black president? Now that’s a headline worth reading.
Alone in Tokyo
Sunday, October 12, 2008 at 3:24pm
It’s Friday and we’re heading back to the airport. The Narita Express is a far different story to the previous journey on the bullet train. For a start, it’s far busier, but is a fraction of the price, especially considering our own extortionate Heathrow Express options in London.The issue is that train is swaying violently from side-to-side as it chugs its way onwards. My stomach is bloated from a vast array of rich food and I’m in danger of redecorating the suit of the businessman beside me.
I’d be far more likely to if I’d have had another late night. I have a feeling that somewhere along the line I’ve left the “Station of All Night Drinking and Flying” on route to “Early Night and Trying to Recreate The DVD Cover of Lost in Translation.” Just for giggles, of course.
In an ideal world, I’ll settle into my seat with enormous legroom and drift into a dreamless sleep, before I arrive, refreshed and with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye at Heathrow. In the real world, I’ll have to be forced into my seat like a Jack In a Box and feel like weeping by the time I get home through displacement and lack of sleep. The visit to Tokyo was swift – a two-day stopover for TGS.
Thankfully I managed to get some time to myself yesterday – a rarity on trips like this. I arrived back from the show, my legs feeling like they’d been treated to a hammering by a meat pounder and sat in front of my PC trying to decide where to spend my precious two hours alone in Tokyo.
It was a toss up between Chiyoda where the Imperial Palace is located, or Harajuku, the shopping district where the crazily-dressed punk kids hang out. I opted for the slower-paced option and headed over on the JR line. The Palace and Gardens are a short walk from Tokyo Station, a large western-looking building not too dissimilar in looks to St Pancras in London. Beyond this was a large park, with two large moats at the left and right edges. Each had these modern buildings built in the traditional style -white paint and triangular roofs around the perimeter of the moat. I walked towards the nearest one to take some photos. There was a businessman sitting on the curb, hands resting on his knees, looking straight ahead. I imagined that just below the surface of his smartly dressed exterior was a horrifically-stressed, near suicidal salaryman. I don’t know why.
As I walked closer, I saw that he was looking out towards the setting sun, with a slight smile that told me he was content with the world. I couldn’t have been more wrong.I finished with the photos and strolled across the full length of the park towards the Tokyo Tower and found Niju-bashi Bridge by mistake. I was so glad I did. A lovely bridge stretched across another moat; in the background, nestled among the trees was another perimeter building, overlooking the park like a silently imposing sentinel. In the failing light, the scene was pure serenity, and for the first time on any visit to Japan, I felt at peace. It turns out that content little smile was contagious. Sure, I’d seen ancient temples representing a more traditional side of Japan, but they seem so isolated and rare among the sprawling neon metropolis, as out of place as a rose would be, if it sprung up from between the cracks of one of the neverending concrete of Tokyo.
Here was a place that was modern, yet as timeless and majestic as any 13th century castle; an enduring symbol of Japan’s contrasts. Finally, when I least expected it, I’d found a bridge between two worlds.
It’s Friday and we’re heading back to the airport. The Narita Express is a far different story to the previous journey on the bullet train. For a start, it’s far busier, but is a fraction of the price, especially considering our own extortionate Heathrow Express options in London.The issue is that train is swaying violently from side-to-side as it chugs its way onwards. My stomach is bloated from a vast array of rich food and I’m in danger of redecorating the suit of the businessman beside me.
I’d be far more likely to if I’d have had another late night. I have a feeling that somewhere along the line I’ve left the “Station of All Night Drinking and Flying” on route to “Early Night and Trying to Recreate The DVD Cover of Lost in Translation.” Just for giggles, of course.
In an ideal world, I’ll settle into my seat with enormous legroom and drift into a dreamless sleep, before I arrive, refreshed and with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye at Heathrow. In the real world, I’ll have to be forced into my seat like a Jack In a Box and feel like weeping by the time I get home through displacement and lack of sleep. The visit to Tokyo was swift – a two-day stopover for TGS.
Thankfully I managed to get some time to myself yesterday – a rarity on trips like this. I arrived back from the show, my legs feeling like they’d been treated to a hammering by a meat pounder and sat in front of my PC trying to decide where to spend my precious two hours alone in Tokyo.
It was a toss up between Chiyoda where the Imperial Palace is located, or Harajuku, the shopping district where the crazily-dressed punk kids hang out. I opted for the slower-paced option and headed over on the JR line. The Palace and Gardens are a short walk from Tokyo Station, a large western-looking building not too dissimilar in looks to St Pancras in London. Beyond this was a large park, with two large moats at the left and right edges. Each had these modern buildings built in the traditional style -white paint and triangular roofs around the perimeter of the moat. I walked towards the nearest one to take some photos. There was a businessman sitting on the curb, hands resting on his knees, looking straight ahead. I imagined that just below the surface of his smartly dressed exterior was a horrifically-stressed, near suicidal salaryman. I don’t know why.
As I walked closer, I saw that he was looking out towards the setting sun, with a slight smile that told me he was content with the world. I couldn’t have been more wrong.I finished with the photos and strolled across the full length of the park towards the Tokyo Tower and found Niju-bashi Bridge by mistake. I was so glad I did. A lovely bridge stretched across another moat; in the background, nestled among the trees was another perimeter building, overlooking the park like a silently imposing sentinel. In the failing light, the scene was pure serenity, and for the first time on any visit to Japan, I felt at peace. It turns out that content little smile was contagious. Sure, I’d seen ancient temples representing a more traditional side of Japan, but they seem so isolated and rare among the sprawling neon metropolis, as out of place as a rose would be, if it sprung up from between the cracks of one of the neverending concrete of Tokyo.
Here was a place that was modern, yet as timeless and majestic as any 13th century castle; an enduring symbol of Japan’s contrasts. Finally, when I least expected it, I’d found a bridge between two worlds.
Five Go Wild in Kyoto
Saturday, October 11, 2008 at 8:01pm
Two days after arriving in Osaka and I’m writing this on the Shinkansen from Kyoto to Tokyo, reflecting on the last two days in Japan. I managed to bag myself a bulkhead seat in the unreserved seating section of the train. The view from the window has not been one I’ve been used to seeing in Japan - a wall of mountain stretches across one side of the horizon, with flat green fields and telegraph poles in the foreground.
This is more like it; enough of that faceless neon nonsense. I retrieve the sandwich I’d just purchased at the station (I wasn’t going to take up the offer of a tray of Sushi - no way, Kemo sabe). The ham, potato and ‘mysterious dressing’ of the crust-less sandwich is yumtasmic, but I expect nothing less from a product as shamelessly tagged as “Delicious Sandwich.” Oh, and there’s more. The sub-text reads the following:“We send you the lovely flavour of the wind in the meadows. A surprising deliciousness which you’ll never forget.” You know what? I don’t think I will.
I look up from my laptop and out of the window to the left. The mountains are now on the other side. Mind you, I’m not surprised; with the lack of sleep, hangover, jetlag, sugar and caffeine crash added to my general feeling of utter bewilderment, we could well be floating through space and I wouldn’t be fazed. I foolishly opted for the ‘no reservation required area’ having mistakenly thought that my previous experience of empty carriages in the other section had nothing to do with the fact that there’s an added premium for the option of knowing where you’re going to sit. There’s a sleepy looking chap to my left with a sleek flat phone he’s flipped up and is watching what looks like a Japanese comedy. The girl on my right has her head stuck to the window, her body language very guarded. I’m listening to Simon and Garfunkel as we arriving into Nagoya, and there’s a parent and her child waiting to disembark. The kid is restlessly leaning out of his mother’s strap seat to stick his tongue out at an elderly woman behind him. A young chap is next to leave, with punk-like dyed sand coloured hair and an obscenely bright pink tracksuit jacket. My legs are aching from a stroll around the grounds of Nijo Castle in Kyoto, a magnificent structure that used to house the imperial palace when Kyoto was the capital of Japan (I may well have an extremely sunburnt face, but I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror since I trimmed my beard to reveal “Die Doppelchinner”).
Inside the castle, near the Shogun’s old quarters, the floor creaks, supposedly designed that way so that would-be assassins could be detected. Signs appeared regularly: NO PHOTOGRAPHY, NO SMOKING (bit of an obvious one for a 17 century world heritage site made mostly from wood), and NO SCRIBBLING - perhaps not the best word to deter vandals, but I got the drift. The Ninomaru garden beyond the castle, near to the palace, is billed as a “Special Scenic Spot” in the leaflet. A heron sits nearby a waterfall cascading water into a large pond with exotic rocks.
Ever since I first visited Tokyo in 2006, I wanted to see something like this, evidence of the majestic heritage of the old Japan. I wish my wife was here to enjoy it with me.
There are five of us; half of our group didn’t make it. We tumbled out of the karaoke bar at 1am this morning and headed out towards the main road in search of a taxi. Then came a tap on my shoulder, and the words I’d been dreading.“Actually Stef, we’re going to stay out a while.” I got a text after I woke up at 6am, basically listing everyone who’d been out, followed by “…are not coming to Kyoto.” And that was it. Said guest is still sleeping it off. At 2pm. We might see him later.
A train guard in a blue suit walks past and bows in the doorway of the carriage, before moving onward. The bullet train, as the name suggests, is quite the rocket. A cross between Concorde and tube of toothpaste, it glides through the countryside like a comet, at least four times faster than the “JR” standard equivalent, and at least four times the price.
We’ll be arriving into Tokyo about 4pm.
Two days after arriving in Osaka and I’m writing this on the Shinkansen from Kyoto to Tokyo, reflecting on the last two days in Japan. I managed to bag myself a bulkhead seat in the unreserved seating section of the train. The view from the window has not been one I’ve been used to seeing in Japan - a wall of mountain stretches across one side of the horizon, with flat green fields and telegraph poles in the foreground.
This is more like it; enough of that faceless neon nonsense. I retrieve the sandwich I’d just purchased at the station (I wasn’t going to take up the offer of a tray of Sushi - no way, Kemo sabe). The ham, potato and ‘mysterious dressing’ of the crust-less sandwich is yumtasmic, but I expect nothing less from a product as shamelessly tagged as “Delicious Sandwich.” Oh, and there’s more. The sub-text reads the following:“We send you the lovely flavour of the wind in the meadows. A surprising deliciousness which you’ll never forget.” You know what? I don’t think I will.
I look up from my laptop and out of the window to the left. The mountains are now on the other side. Mind you, I’m not surprised; with the lack of sleep, hangover, jetlag, sugar and caffeine crash added to my general feeling of utter bewilderment, we could well be floating through space and I wouldn’t be fazed. I foolishly opted for the ‘no reservation required area’ having mistakenly thought that my previous experience of empty carriages in the other section had nothing to do with the fact that there’s an added premium for the option of knowing where you’re going to sit. There’s a sleepy looking chap to my left with a sleek flat phone he’s flipped up and is watching what looks like a Japanese comedy. The girl on my right has her head stuck to the window, her body language very guarded. I’m listening to Simon and Garfunkel as we arriving into Nagoya, and there’s a parent and her child waiting to disembark. The kid is restlessly leaning out of his mother’s strap seat to stick his tongue out at an elderly woman behind him. A young chap is next to leave, with punk-like dyed sand coloured hair and an obscenely bright pink tracksuit jacket. My legs are aching from a stroll around the grounds of Nijo Castle in Kyoto, a magnificent structure that used to house the imperial palace when Kyoto was the capital of Japan (I may well have an extremely sunburnt face, but I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror since I trimmed my beard to reveal “Die Doppelchinner”).
Inside the castle, near the Shogun’s old quarters, the floor creaks, supposedly designed that way so that would-be assassins could be detected. Signs appeared regularly: NO PHOTOGRAPHY, NO SMOKING (bit of an obvious one for a 17 century world heritage site made mostly from wood), and NO SCRIBBLING - perhaps not the best word to deter vandals, but I got the drift. The Ninomaru garden beyond the castle, near to the palace, is billed as a “Special Scenic Spot” in the leaflet. A heron sits nearby a waterfall cascading water into a large pond with exotic rocks.
Ever since I first visited Tokyo in 2006, I wanted to see something like this, evidence of the majestic heritage of the old Japan. I wish my wife was here to enjoy it with me.
There are five of us; half of our group didn’t make it. We tumbled out of the karaoke bar at 1am this morning and headed out towards the main road in search of a taxi. Then came a tap on my shoulder, and the words I’d been dreading.“Actually Stef, we’re going to stay out a while.” I got a text after I woke up at 6am, basically listing everyone who’d been out, followed by “…are not coming to Kyoto.” And that was it. Said guest is still sleeping it off. At 2pm. We might see him later.
A train guard in a blue suit walks past and bows in the doorway of the carriage, before moving onward. The bullet train, as the name suggests, is quite the rocket. A cross between Concorde and tube of toothpaste, it glides through the countryside like a comet, at least four times faster than the “JR” standard equivalent, and at least four times the price.
We’ll be arriving into Tokyo about 4pm.
New York, New York, I *heart* New York
I'd never really had a romantic vision of America, and especially not New York.Practically every film I watched as a youngster in the eighties painted a grim picture of the citywhich during the day had bustling streets filled with cocky yuppies with double-breasted grey suits and bubble-breasted power-dressed business women with big hair. At night, the city became a modern-day, gun-crime-riddled wild west, with daring cop duos and serious drug problems. Apparently Rudolph Guiliani came along and cleaned up the place. Not that I knew of course, I was too busy going out and getting pissed to watch the news in the late nineties. I guess shows like Friends and Sex in the City really helped to paint a new picture of how cosmopolitan, funky and fresh New York was, without a red-eyed horse in Central Park in sight.
It was only when the Twin Towers got attacked that I had an opportunity to see another side of the city in the media, but I still had no desire to go there.By the time 2003 came around, the majority of the summer holidays I was lucky enough to have in Cyprus or elsewhere in Greece brought out a real love of the beach and/or scenic views of the countryside. I hated cities, from limited trips to Croydon for Christmas shopping, and even fewer daytrips to London, being squashed onto the tube, or being jostled about on Oxford Street made me yearn for some fresh air and space.So when my wife suggested a short break over to one of the biggest cities in the world, for Valentines Day weekend, I wasn't exactly excited about the prospect.
I was in a bit of a grumpy mood when we arrived at Newark Airport, New Jersey after a sub-eight hour flight. I soon found out that I was horrifically under-dressed for the harsh New York winter and as we stood at the end of the concourse wating for a shuttle bus, I was openly cursing. My previous experience with wind was the kind that moved around you and over your head. I'd never felt such an icy wind that just moved right through you as if you weren't there.The skyline that hulked up towards us as we drove towards Manhattan changed all that. Something I'd never experienced before was an appreciation for man-made beauty, but boy-oh-boy New York has it all.
The first thing I noticed as I stepped from the bus into a slush covered street with steam rising from the vents in the road, was how enormous everything was; how much the skyscrapers really did look as if they were scraping the sky, and I fell in love with the place there and then. We were staying in a small hotel on Lexington, and as it was my longest-haul trip at the time, I didn't sleep that well. At all. The other people in the nearby rooms were really loud, and the noise of the road traffic outside throughout the night was a bit of a unwelcome shock. One day we walked out of the hotel and into a stream of marching anti-Iraq invasion protesters. We followed them down the street a little way and then turned off towards 5th Avenue, in search of shopping and Central Park.
On the way, on Park Avenue, we came across a rack of newspapers, one of which looked like a version of our own tabloids. I can't remember the headline, but the picture spoke a thousand words. There was an image of two delegates; one from France, and the other from Germany, both having just opposed the coming invasion in the U.N. Their heads had been replaced by that of weasels. We did all the touristy bits in those four days but one of the most memorable points appeared one day when we got on the wrong tube and ended up in Chinatown's bleakest area, choosing to walk to another subway line, which ended up being a trek down what seemed like a quarter of the island. We walked a very, very long way.
We came upon Ground Zero quite by mistake. My teeth were chattering by the time we reached the rear entrance of the old Century 21 department store on the edge of the financial district. And as we pulled on our hats and gloves and once more re-entered the streets of Manhattan, we were stunned by unexpectedly open space ahead of us. And the silence of it. I think we both knew what we were looking at without needing to be told. Although 15 months had passed since September 11th, there was a very thick cloud of emotion in the air. Respectful tourists shuffled from the wall of photographs and letters leading up from the subway station, across to the fences surrounding the perimeter of the site. A black mesh of sheeting covered a the entire right side of a huge building to the left, the sun shining through the thin material to reveal the barely disguised scarred facade of rooms missing walls. Thin gaps in the fence showed a hole in the ground (I think there was also a large cross inside), and I was surprised just how raw it felt, like an open wound that no-one wanted to cover.
The last time I visited the site, in March of 2008, the area was transformed. There wasn't much built on the site, it actually looked really similar to what it had before, but there was a new subway station, and a proper memorial area. The biggest change was that there was an almost profound air of resolve and regrowth.After we left the site that day in 2003, we moved on down towards Wall Street and on to Battery Park, the southern-most tip of Manhattan, overlooking the harbor (sic). There was a large dented sphere that had been pulled from the plaza between the two WTC towers, lying as a memorial to those lost, in front of an eternal flame. We had many adventures during that short trip, but it was that flame that characterised this amazing city, it's unerring drive to not only continue, but to move forward; to not only heal, but to create something even more spectacular than before.
It was only when the Twin Towers got attacked that I had an opportunity to see another side of the city in the media, but I still had no desire to go there.By the time 2003 came around, the majority of the summer holidays I was lucky enough to have in Cyprus or elsewhere in Greece brought out a real love of the beach and/or scenic views of the countryside. I hated cities, from limited trips to Croydon for Christmas shopping, and even fewer daytrips to London, being squashed onto the tube, or being jostled about on Oxford Street made me yearn for some fresh air and space.So when my wife suggested a short break over to one of the biggest cities in the world, for Valentines Day weekend, I wasn't exactly excited about the prospect.
I was in a bit of a grumpy mood when we arrived at Newark Airport, New Jersey after a sub-eight hour flight. I soon found out that I was horrifically under-dressed for the harsh New York winter and as we stood at the end of the concourse wating for a shuttle bus, I was openly cursing. My previous experience with wind was the kind that moved around you and over your head. I'd never felt such an icy wind that just moved right through you as if you weren't there.The skyline that hulked up towards us as we drove towards Manhattan changed all that. Something I'd never experienced before was an appreciation for man-made beauty, but boy-oh-boy New York has it all.
The first thing I noticed as I stepped from the bus into a slush covered street with steam rising from the vents in the road, was how enormous everything was; how much the skyscrapers really did look as if they were scraping the sky, and I fell in love with the place there and then. We were staying in a small hotel on Lexington, and as it was my longest-haul trip at the time, I didn't sleep that well. At all. The other people in the nearby rooms were really loud, and the noise of the road traffic outside throughout the night was a bit of a unwelcome shock. One day we walked out of the hotel and into a stream of marching anti-Iraq invasion protesters. We followed them down the street a little way and then turned off towards 5th Avenue, in search of shopping and Central Park.
On the way, on Park Avenue, we came across a rack of newspapers, one of which looked like a version of our own tabloids. I can't remember the headline, but the picture spoke a thousand words. There was an image of two delegates; one from France, and the other from Germany, both having just opposed the coming invasion in the U.N. Their heads had been replaced by that of weasels. We did all the touristy bits in those four days but one of the most memorable points appeared one day when we got on the wrong tube and ended up in Chinatown's bleakest area, choosing to walk to another subway line, which ended up being a trek down what seemed like a quarter of the island. We walked a very, very long way.
We came upon Ground Zero quite by mistake. My teeth were chattering by the time we reached the rear entrance of the old Century 21 department store on the edge of the financial district. And as we pulled on our hats and gloves and once more re-entered the streets of Manhattan, we were stunned by unexpectedly open space ahead of us. And the silence of it. I think we both knew what we were looking at without needing to be told. Although 15 months had passed since September 11th, there was a very thick cloud of emotion in the air. Respectful tourists shuffled from the wall of photographs and letters leading up from the subway station, across to the fences surrounding the perimeter of the site. A black mesh of sheeting covered a the entire right side of a huge building to the left, the sun shining through the thin material to reveal the barely disguised scarred facade of rooms missing walls. Thin gaps in the fence showed a hole in the ground (I think there was also a large cross inside), and I was surprised just how raw it felt, like an open wound that no-one wanted to cover.
The last time I visited the site, in March of 2008, the area was transformed. There wasn't much built on the site, it actually looked really similar to what it had before, but there was a new subway station, and a proper memorial area. The biggest change was that there was an almost profound air of resolve and regrowth.After we left the site that day in 2003, we moved on down towards Wall Street and on to Battery Park, the southern-most tip of Manhattan, overlooking the harbor (sic). There was a large dented sphere that had been pulled from the plaza between the two WTC towers, lying as a memorial to those lost, in front of an eternal flame. We had many adventures during that short trip, but it was that flame that characterised this amazing city, it's unerring drive to not only continue, but to move forward; to not only heal, but to create something even more spectacular than before.
Dunkin' Donors
Thursday, September 18, 2008 at 8:13pm
I was watching The One Show on BBC1 the other night, and, realising the MIGHTY Eastenders wasn't to follow (Wednesday sucks), I lost interest and started reading (it's my second reading of a book called Dangerous Parking, by a chap called Stuart Browne - it's sad, funny, and generally brilliant, so please read it).So anyway, on pops this short program called Inside Out, with three lifestyle stories. Now I don't usually write notes about 'serious' issues, as no-one likes a preacher on Facebook, after all, it's only for photos of pissed up nights out and gossip when someone's relationship status changes, BUT......I was particularly moved by the first feature that popped up, on something called 'Cord Transplants.'
It's a process that provides blood donations for sufferers of various diseases such as Leukemia (as opposed to potentially painful marrow donations) from discarded umblical cords following a birth. It's used as an alternative to bone marrow because this blood is also rich in useful stem cells that can create healthy red blood cells. I'm sure somewhere there's an ethical debate going on, but right now I can't think of a good reason why more people don't agree to this more; I was simply amazed that something so positive can come from something that's disposed of after use, and anything that can help treat this awful disease must be good.You can find more info here:
http://cks.library.nhs.uk/patient_information_leaflet/bone_marrow_transplant (scroll down a bit)Also, whilst I'm sort of on the subject, for those people who don't carry a donor card, but aren't dead against the idea, you might not know that you can actually register online here:https://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/default.jspDon't worry, next note, I'll regress a few years to moan about my pet hates :)
I was watching The One Show on BBC1 the other night, and, realising the MIGHTY Eastenders wasn't to follow (Wednesday sucks), I lost interest and started reading (it's my second reading of a book called Dangerous Parking, by a chap called Stuart Browne - it's sad, funny, and generally brilliant, so please read it).So anyway, on pops this short program called Inside Out, with three lifestyle stories. Now I don't usually write notes about 'serious' issues, as no-one likes a preacher on Facebook, after all, it's only for photos of pissed up nights out and gossip when someone's relationship status changes, BUT......I was particularly moved by the first feature that popped up, on something called 'Cord Transplants.'
It's a process that provides blood donations for sufferers of various diseases such as Leukemia (as opposed to potentially painful marrow donations) from discarded umblical cords following a birth. It's used as an alternative to bone marrow because this blood is also rich in useful stem cells that can create healthy red blood cells. I'm sure somewhere there's an ethical debate going on, but right now I can't think of a good reason why more people don't agree to this more; I was simply amazed that something so positive can come from something that's disposed of after use, and anything that can help treat this awful disease must be good.You can find more info here:
http://cks.library.nhs.uk/patient_information_leaflet/bone_marrow_transplant (scroll down a bit)Also, whilst I'm sort of on the subject, for those people who don't carry a donor card, but aren't dead against the idea, you might not know that you can actually register online here:https://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/default.jspDon't worry, next note, I'll regress a few years to moan about my pet hates :)
Indian Summer, please
Sunday, September 7, 2008 at 8:07pm
Picture the scene. There I was, half-way up a cliff path last weekend, practically wheezing. My hair was damp with light sweat or rain, perhaps even mist from the sea. I stood with my wife, surveying the view of the magnificent cliffs beyond the stony beach. The sea continuously smashing against the shore, foamy spray coating the shiny black rocks. Damn this rain, I thought. It was gorgeous the day before at Woolacombe, when we ate fish and chips on the beach, watching the surfers and the gulls in the late afternoon sunshine.
Sadly, the day we actually set aside for properly exploring the area was a washout. I thought I glimpsed a patch of blue sky, perhaps lost on the wrong day, way out to sea, but I blinked and missed it. I got out my camera (I can't leave the thing alone these days) to capture the scene, but decided against it and quickly 'sheaf-ed' it for fear of the rain getting into the mechanism and knackering my most prized possession. Anything to delay continuing the walk up the ridiculously steep walk up towards Lynton. I brushed my sodden hair away from my face and continued on. To think I moaned about the weather then. What the hell has happened to it?
Yesterday's paper showed scenes of massive waves dwarving a nearby train at Dawlish - not far from where I was in Lynmouth the week before - in relatively mild temperatures; other pictures showed flooding in South Wales. The headlines spoke of tragic deaths. Things seem to be getting worse. Where was the summer? It hasn't stopped raining all weekend. It's freezing ffs. I saw a fully-grown conker today, half buried in fallen leaves. I'm not ready for Autumn yet. I haven't even started my summer exercise program, and now we're planning for the Christmas party. When did time move this quickly? I could have sworn that when we were young, the long summer days playing British Bulldog across the 'mound' were twice as long, and far more regular. Is this what it gets like when you get older? Blink and you'll miss it? Screw this, I'm moving to LA.
Picture the scene. There I was, half-way up a cliff path last weekend, practically wheezing. My hair was damp with light sweat or rain, perhaps even mist from the sea. I stood with my wife, surveying the view of the magnificent cliffs beyond the stony beach. The sea continuously smashing against the shore, foamy spray coating the shiny black rocks. Damn this rain, I thought. It was gorgeous the day before at Woolacombe, when we ate fish and chips on the beach, watching the surfers and the gulls in the late afternoon sunshine.
Sadly, the day we actually set aside for properly exploring the area was a washout. I thought I glimpsed a patch of blue sky, perhaps lost on the wrong day, way out to sea, but I blinked and missed it. I got out my camera (I can't leave the thing alone these days) to capture the scene, but decided against it and quickly 'sheaf-ed' it for fear of the rain getting into the mechanism and knackering my most prized possession. Anything to delay continuing the walk up the ridiculously steep walk up towards Lynton. I brushed my sodden hair away from my face and continued on. To think I moaned about the weather then. What the hell has happened to it?
Yesterday's paper showed scenes of massive waves dwarving a nearby train at Dawlish - not far from where I was in Lynmouth the week before - in relatively mild temperatures; other pictures showed flooding in South Wales. The headlines spoke of tragic deaths. Things seem to be getting worse. Where was the summer? It hasn't stopped raining all weekend. It's freezing ffs. I saw a fully-grown conker today, half buried in fallen leaves. I'm not ready for Autumn yet. I haven't even started my summer exercise program, and now we're planning for the Christmas party. When did time move this quickly? I could have sworn that when we were young, the long summer days playing British Bulldog across the 'mound' were twice as long, and far more regular. Is this what it gets like when you get older? Blink and you'll miss it? Screw this, I'm moving to LA.
Questions, questions.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008 at 11:06pm
Wasn't that voting dodgy in Eurovision?
What will Big Brother have in store for its victims this year?
Who are you going to support in Euro 2007?
What did Boris Johnson have for breakfast?
Why did Kylie get dropped from one of Coldplay's songs?
Will Jose Mourinho get anywhere with Inter Milan next year?
What's going to be the Christmas number one?
Will hiding cigarettes behind the counter really make a difference?
Will Obama really soon become the first black president in US history?
Are oil prices ever going to go down?
Has Lewis Hamilton got a chance to win F1 Drivers Championship this year?
Lots of things to think about, and lots more besides. We're keeping really busy nowadays. Between our 9-5s and what's going on in the Square, there's not really much time to reflect on what else is going on in the world. Back in the late 60s there can't have been much to entertain people, hell, they must have been totally bored shitless. TV must have been utter rubbish compared to today's selection. And we have Sky+ to help us out. Maybe that's why, in the late sixties, even a couple of years after the start of an 8(?) year war, loads of people became hippies and protested against the injustice of it all. "Bring the boys back home" their banners said to a war that really didn't make much sense at all. We've got much more important things to worry about now, it seems. No point getting all het up about all that, surely. Bring back the hippies, I say.
Wasn't that voting dodgy in Eurovision?
What will Big Brother have in store for its victims this year?
Who are you going to support in Euro 2007?
What did Boris Johnson have for breakfast?
Why did Kylie get dropped from one of Coldplay's songs?
Will Jose Mourinho get anywhere with Inter Milan next year?
What's going to be the Christmas number one?
Will hiding cigarettes behind the counter really make a difference?
Will Obama really soon become the first black president in US history?
Are oil prices ever going to go down?
Has Lewis Hamilton got a chance to win F1 Drivers Championship this year?
Lots of things to think about, and lots more besides. We're keeping really busy nowadays. Between our 9-5s and what's going on in the Square, there's not really much time to reflect on what else is going on in the world. Back in the late 60s there can't have been much to entertain people, hell, they must have been totally bored shitless. TV must have been utter rubbish compared to today's selection. And we have Sky+ to help us out. Maybe that's why, in the late sixties, even a couple of years after the start of an 8(?) year war, loads of people became hippies and protested against the injustice of it all. "Bring the boys back home" their banners said to a war that really didn't make much sense at all. We've got much more important things to worry about now, it seems. No point getting all het up about all that, surely. Bring back the hippies, I say.
Why London cabbies are the best in the world
Saturday, May 10, 2008 at 7:28pm
It’s 11pm on a Monday night; four of us are being driven through the sterile, empty streets of Santa Ana, Orange County. I’m sitting next to a supersized taxi driver. We’ve just got off a plane from London, and are hoping for a bite to eat and a couple of beers at a karaoke bar I'd found on t'internet. Not exactly a shock for those of you who know me - food, beers and karaoke are just about my favourite things in the whole world. Our driver, just having swept the many, many empty takeaway containers off his passenger seat to allow me to sit down, looks at me and politely asks: “Where are you guys from?”“England” I hesitantly offer in response. “Ah you’re British!” he shrieks. “If it wasn’t for you guys, we wouldn’t be here!” Quite. Next he tells the stunned passengers of the car that he can’t tell the difference between our accent and that of those people from Australian or New Zealand, with a high-pitched chuckle, not unlike Chief Piggum from The Simpsons. “Oh, and you don’t want to go to that karaoke place – it’s a gay bar. Go this other bar - actually, ah shoot - it might be shut due to that violence last week. Why don't I take you to some really good titty bars instead or find you some cheap, but very high-class hookers?" Not that anything we’d said could have been remotely translated into “Take us to see naked women, kind sir! And step on it,” you understand. It slowly dawned on me that this guy was either just simple or he'd be getting a tidy commission from any of the places he'd take us to. Suddenly all we want to do is find a takeaway and go back to the safety of our hotel as quickly as possible. “I know a good place. All the locals go there, it’s open 24 hours and you can get a good feed for under $20. I’ll take you there.”
So we pulled up in front of a local place called Norms. Out of the roadside eatery choice of Wendys, McDonalds, Taco Bell, this really wasn’t ever going to come top of the pile. I really don’t know how to describe this place; I was too shocked for words. Needless to say we didn’t really fancy it and had to struggle to find a cab back after walking, hungry around this shell of a town for about forty minutes. We cheered when we found a Subway. The lights were on, but it was shut. It was officially the worst night ever on a press trip. Next day, we went off to Laguna Beach, and were driven by cab by a friendly Vietnamese chap. At first he seemed like the nicest guy in the world, really chatty. He even recognised our accents, and said he knew England well, which I believed; his grasp of the language was perfect.
It was a beautiful sunny day in the OC, and as we pulled out of Santa Ana, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. That was until he pulled onto the freeway, and decided to let rip, swerving out of the path of pickup trucks at the last minute and howling with laughter. It was like being in a cartoon. So after I arrived back in England, hailed a black cab and heard the immortal words, “where to guv?” I knew in my heart he’d know where he was going. I even joyfully indulged in small talk about the weather.
It’s 11pm on a Monday night; four of us are being driven through the sterile, empty streets of Santa Ana, Orange County. I’m sitting next to a supersized taxi driver. We’ve just got off a plane from London, and are hoping for a bite to eat and a couple of beers at a karaoke bar I'd found on t'internet. Not exactly a shock for those of you who know me - food, beers and karaoke are just about my favourite things in the whole world. Our driver, just having swept the many, many empty takeaway containers off his passenger seat to allow me to sit down, looks at me and politely asks: “Where are you guys from?”“England” I hesitantly offer in response. “Ah you’re British!” he shrieks. “If it wasn’t for you guys, we wouldn’t be here!” Quite. Next he tells the stunned passengers of the car that he can’t tell the difference between our accent and that of those people from Australian or New Zealand, with a high-pitched chuckle, not unlike Chief Piggum from The Simpsons. “Oh, and you don’t want to go to that karaoke place – it’s a gay bar. Go this other bar - actually, ah shoot - it might be shut due to that violence last week. Why don't I take you to some really good titty bars instead or find you some cheap, but very high-class hookers?" Not that anything we’d said could have been remotely translated into “Take us to see naked women, kind sir! And step on it,” you understand. It slowly dawned on me that this guy was either just simple or he'd be getting a tidy commission from any of the places he'd take us to. Suddenly all we want to do is find a takeaway and go back to the safety of our hotel as quickly as possible. “I know a good place. All the locals go there, it’s open 24 hours and you can get a good feed for under $20. I’ll take you there.”
So we pulled up in front of a local place called Norms. Out of the roadside eatery choice of Wendys, McDonalds, Taco Bell, this really wasn’t ever going to come top of the pile. I really don’t know how to describe this place; I was too shocked for words. Needless to say we didn’t really fancy it and had to struggle to find a cab back after walking, hungry around this shell of a town for about forty minutes. We cheered when we found a Subway. The lights were on, but it was shut. It was officially the worst night ever on a press trip. Next day, we went off to Laguna Beach, and were driven by cab by a friendly Vietnamese chap. At first he seemed like the nicest guy in the world, really chatty. He even recognised our accents, and said he knew England well, which I believed; his grasp of the language was perfect.
It was a beautiful sunny day in the OC, and as we pulled out of Santa Ana, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. That was until he pulled onto the freeway, and decided to let rip, swerving out of the path of pickup trucks at the last minute and howling with laughter. It was like being in a cartoon. So after I arrived back in England, hailed a black cab and heard the immortal words, “where to guv?” I knew in my heart he’d know where he was going. I even joyfully indulged in small talk about the weather.
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