Only in Holland

I saw this article in the Sunday Times yesterday. It reminded me of the “joys” of bitte ballen. The Dutch are even less foodie than us Brits. Mind you, Rotterdam is a special place – read about it here.

Only In America

It is Summer – Today!

 

According to the rather attractive Sky News weather girl, Lucy Versamy, it is going to reach the heady heights of 28 to 30 degrees Celsius in the UK today. Consequently I am sporting my shorts, t-shirts and flip flops (thongs for any Aussies that pop by) and my knotted hankie and deck chair are at the ready. And, I am waiting.

To be honest, I am not hopeful. It looks a tad overcast out there at the mo and I am trying to entice the cat to sit on my lap to keep my knees warm. And, we were promised a “barbecue summer” by the Met Office some time back. And, it never materialised. Indeed, a few weeks back I had to bolster our flood defences……it has been October/November throughout the months of July/August in this small corner of Cheshire.

My resident conspiracy theorist, C,  claims that the “barbecue summer” claim was put about by the government to encourage people to take holidays at home or in the UK to boost the economy. For once, she may have been right.

But surely it will backfire next year – one fortnight bailing out of a leaking tent or sitting in a British seaside cafe nursing a mug of tea and soaking in the vinegar will surely prompt a mass exodus of the great unwashed to Costa Del Karaoke next year………

Related Posts:

It Rains Up North

Four Minute Warning

I was working alone in an office in Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, at noon today when the four minute warning sounded across the city.

The alarm took the format of an old WWII air raid siren accompanied by a repeated announcement which I clearly did not understand at the time, it being in Czech. But, being a native of the nation that survived the Blitz and the Cold War I did not panic. I did what every sensible person would do at times such as these. I went onto Facebook and left a message saying goodbye to all my friends and telling my wife that I loved her.

My sense of panic increased a tad when a friend responded saying that she too was in the middle of a similar warning but that she was in Clermont Ferrand in France. Were the Russians invading Western Europe? Were aliens taking advantage of the G20 summit in London to wipe out the planet’s leaders in one fell swoop?

I was distracted somewhat by suggestions from another friend who shall remain nameless (Vanessa Coll) about what I could do with the remaining three minutes of my like. Frankly, however, most were impractical, illegal and anatomically impossible. But that is the kind of girl she is Always good in a crisis.

As it turns out, the city-wide security alarm is tested every first Wednesday of the month. This follows lessons learnt during the flooding of the city in 2002. I do not know how the public announcement in Czech translates. Presumably it means something like “this is a test” or “non-Czech speakers are in danger of drowning”.

Scandinavian Saga

I recently had to travel on business to Oslo in Norway. Thanks to the demise of the airline industry post 9/11 and the credit crunch, I had to fly to Oslo from Birmingham International airport, rather than from Manchester, and, via Frankfurt in Germany rather than direct. This is like travelling to Aberdeen from London via Cardiff.

The cost of this mini European tour was some £750. For this I would normally expect the personal attention of my own stewardess (and a pretty one at that) with ready access to fois gras and a drinks cabinet. But, all I got in reality on the outward leg was the offer of a sandwich and a Twix bar, which I declined, and a small, unsatisfying square of cold chicken.

Oh, and we also got to sit next to/under a German man mountain.

I was travelling with my diminutive boss, who was rather technologically challenged when it came to checking in online (he is only European Vice President of IT after all). Consequently, he was sat in the aisle seat. I was sat in the window seat. I was, briefly, relatively comfortable due to the empty seat between us and the lack of a seat in front of me – we were by the emergency exit. Relatively comfortable that was until this huge German guy waddled down the aisle and grunted (the usual mode of communication of a German abroad), indicating that he was booked into the seat between me an my boss. This came as a surprise because there had not been a towel draped over the seat – the usual German method of reserving seats.

Now, readers of my earlier post – Letter From America- will know that the issue of fatties on board planes is an unnecessarily controversial topic. But this guy was fat. Obese. He had not seen his feet in a long, long time. I declined the advice of one fellow blogger to check whether this unseemly excess of blubber was due to a medical condition as it was clear to me that this was a lover of food and sofas in equal measure. Indeed, he may even have been partial to eating the odd sofa.

Fatty squeezed past my boss, causing the poor souls sitting in the row in front of us to adopt the crash position. He hovered over the empty middle seat, casting a large shadow over my boss and I. And, then, he lowered himself into the seat. When I say he “lowered” himself, I am describing a motion much like that of an elevator in freefall in a disaster movie having had the cable severed. Gravity did the inevitable. The arms of the seat spilled outwards and there was a groan of metal in agony as the plane sagged visibly in the middle. And, I lost all sensation in the right side of my body as it succumbed to the inevitable spillage of spare flesh and blubber over the arm of the seat. I sat for the duration of the flight with my shoulder and head pressed firmly against the wall of the plane.

I am sorry, but this has to be a health and safety issue. If we had been forced down by a bird strike or a Turkish refuelling policy, my boss and I would have been goners. There was no way that we could have summoned the inhuman strength required to extricate ourselves from the bulk of Herr Gross. The emergency exit would have been blocked and the ensuing fire would have burned for days as it consumed the fatty mass of the man sat between us.

You may be interested to know that Fatty also declined the offer of a sandwich and Twix bar. But, this was not because he was dieting. Rather it was because there was no way he would be able to lower his tray because eight of his nine bellies were in the way. Just think of Jabba the Hut and you’ll get the picture. (Ooh, Ive just had a Princess Leia flashback moment! ).

Incidentally, we were somewhat thrown by the safety notice on the leg from Frankfurt to Oslo.

 

It seemed to suggest that if you used your iPod then a black man would use his super powers to look through the plane’s wondow and set fire to the wing. It also seemed to suggest that Lufthansa had a less than pc approach to racial segregation on board, suggesting that black people should exit through the side entrance rather than through the front door with the rest of us.

This made me wonder what would actually happen if someone tried to open the emergency exit at 36,000 feet. I guess the only advice would be to hold on to the Fatty sat next to you and use him as an anchor. I assure you, that baby was going nowhere?

Indeed, this whole trip failed to satisfy on any culinary level. What is it with the Scandinavian obsession with fish, and, pickled herring in particular?! You know that you are not going to get a decent steak in a nation where the local delicacy is rotting shark meat.

I did try the sandwich on the return leg. The bread was hard enough to make your jaw ache ,while the tasteless cheese was hard enough to make the bread seem soft. Which reminds me, I must book a dental appointment…….The Twix was fine.

We nearly missed our connecting flight at Frankfurt. In part this was due to the fact that I got dragged off to a small ante room at the security check. The officious Non-English speaking security people were highly suspicious of my travelling iron and insisted on checking it for explosive residue……..fortunately they found none and removed their rubber gloves!

In any case, my boss and I were upgraded to business class for the final leg to Birmingham. We hoped that this meant a hot meal. It did not. Strangely, Lufthansa had chosen this month to celebrate all things potato. My mother-in-law would have been in her element – she is Irish and lives in Royston Vasey. Our fine fare consisted of ” sweet potato slices with tartar of smoked salmon, tricolour potato terrine, cumin potato wedges and sweet potato mouse, followed by marzipan and potato chocolate balls”. It was inedible.

I would have killed for a packet of Walker’s cheese and onion crisps!

By the way, why is it that all Scandinavian doors open outwards? In the UK and the rest of the world it is normal for doors to open inwards, with the possible exception of cubicles in the Gents where they have to cater for the possibility of a drunk bloke collapsing mid defication – the outward opening door facilitates  access by the emergency services. Strangely, I have it on good authority that this is not the case in the ladies. Anyhow, it seems nonsensical that in a region so used to heavy snow that you would elect to have an outward opening door – surely for 9 months of the year Scandinavians would be unable to get out of their front doors? Strange. It is also, as I found, embarrassing when you are stripped for bed in your hotel room and remember that you have forgotten to put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door – if anyone is in the corridor they will get an eyeful as soon as you open the door. At least she smiled…..

Related Posts:

Letter from America

America is a Foreign Country

I have recently returned from a second business trip to Atlanta, Georgia in the United States of America. And, having just shaken off the last vestiges of jet lag (Kate, I can assure you that it is NOT just a state of mind!) it is clear to me that the USA is one of the most foreign countries that I have ever visited. Or at least, Atlanta is one of the most foreign cities that I have ever visited.

I have visited some 33 countries. Now this might not be a scientifically sound statistic – it is only about 15% of all countries, depending upon how you define a country – but when you consider that some of those countries are in Africa, Asia, the Caribbean and include France and Belgium (Belgians are weird – read here for evidence!) you can see that it is still quite a claim.

The currency is different. The food is different – who on earth would eat grits out of choice? Their whiskey is different. The politics are different – just see some of the responses to Obama’s victory. Their music is different. They take religion far too seriously, with many Christian fundamentalists that would make Bin Laden look like a Sunday School preacher. The fashion and body image is different – most of the women either look like Roseanne Barr before the diet (some even look more like John Goodman) or a Desperate Housewife. They drive everywhere. And, what on Earth is all of this rubbish with the right to bear arms?!?

We might share a common language, but even that is different. Like Alanis Morisette (I know she’s Canadian), they certainly don’t do irony.

It was a surprise to discover how different the American experience is. But, it was also a nice surprise. I like to experience new and different cultures. And, it is nice to know that Britain is not as American as many fear it has become.  May your Gods bless us all.

ps. I think that Little Britain USA has it about right:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q4VFoAvUSI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbJ3AeS_2Ww

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0O3k04pxOQ&feature=related

The Elephant In The Living Room

Oh, the joys of flying and business trips! 

I endured a fretful night’s sleep. I never sleep well when I am expecting, and hoping, for my alarm to go off at an unusually early time.  

I showered with my eyes closed in an attempt to fool myself that I was still grabbing an extra few minutes of slumber. And, I got dressed as quietly as a mouse (or, as quietly as a mouse would do if it was getting dressed – you have to use your imagination here!) while fully aware of the disgruntled noises of complaint coming from C who was huddled beneath a duvet which was failing to block out my noise or the bedroom light. She surfaced briefly to check for breaches of Trinny and Susannah’s fashion rules on the part of her colour-blind other half, before returning beneath the winter-grade tog. I was very jealous.

Eyes still closed, I went downstairs and fed the cat. At least I think it was the cat…..it is difficult to tell in the dim light of the fridge light while still half asleep. Whatever it was was fat, fluffy and purred a lot.

It was with some relief that I did not need to de-ice the car. And so, I reluctantly opened my eyes and drove to the airport, bemoaning the tractor with trailer that had gotten up and out especially early to stop traffic and delay people with deadlines and places to go.

The short-term car park at Manchester Airport was particularly busy. I waited nearly ten minutes for a Vietnamese-looking family to fail to park in a tightish spot. They were in a Picasso, but, it might as well have been a Liebherr T 282 B the way this guy was driving. He tried driving in. He tried reversing in. He edged this way and that but to no avail before finally giving in and going off to look for an alternative spot. I drove straight in and parked without any problem ……..

I had already checked in on line, so I joined the depressing queue for security, toured the duty free shops for illusive bargains, checked my emails on my iPhone, and boarded the plane to Amsterdam without further incident.

I settled into my aisle seat immediately behind business class. Consequently, everyone who walked down the plane with a bag over their shoulder, clouted me on my own shoulder. It seemed that everyone had a big, heavy bag, some with rather sharp edges and corners. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am black and blue. Why can’t they just be a little more considerate and carry their bags in front of them once on board?

“Breakfast” was interesting and eventful. They served us two sandwich rolls. Now, flying KLM, I have recently got used to the one hard cheese sandwich and one marmalade sandwich, which has been typical fare for sometime now. Today they served two quark, red fruit, fig and cheese rolls. My neighbour asked what was on the sandwich and the stewardess responded in Dunglish (a mixture of Dutch and English), “It is written exactly on it!” Quark, red fruit, fig and cheese…..I am never a fan of curdled milk at the best of times and what on Earth was hiding behind the rather vague description of “red fruit”? These sandwiches were frankly inedible!!!

My neighbours, in the middle and window seats also struggled with their repast. The Old Boy next to me asked for tea, but couldn’t get his head around putting creamer in it. He asked for fresh milk, but there was none to be had. So, he ordered an apple juice instead. He seemed most upset when it arrived in a little can and sat and harumphed for a while, leaving his juice unopened. His neighbour, an American, did open his apple juice. And then he spilled it all over his nice cream chinos. Not a good look! Old Boy was obviously an infrequent flyer. As we were standing up upon arrival at Schiphol he informed me that until he had seem me hang my jacket on it he had always wondered what the little notch was for on the clip that holds the tray table up…………..duh?!?

My meeting was at the airport at the Sheraton Schiphol Hotel – which is difficult to say without gobbing in someone’s face. A little piece of America in the heart of the Netherlands. I was sat between two sets of TV screens – one showing non-stop American Football and ice hockey; the other, CCN News. While all the time, Bruce Springsteen and other similar American muzak attempted to drown out the TVs. Five hours passed quite quickly as I met with two Dutch colleagues over a coffee, a ham and cheese sandwich (this being Holland!), and a couple of cokes.

And, soon enough, I found myself back on board the plane home. Possibly as a consequence of the recession and the credit crunch, the plane was only two third’s full. Business class was almost empty.

I was intrigued by my neighbour. He caught my attention when he sat down and took out a big pad of paper and wrote in capital letters using an ink pen with a proper nib: “THE ELEPHANT IN THE LIVING ROOM”. He was an obvious creative type. Very tall, he wore an open denim shirt over some t-shirt declaring allegiance for a 1980s rock band. He had a domed, bald cranium and was left-handed and wore rimless spectacles. Having written in his pad he became distracted by the myths and legends piece in the Holland Herald in-flight magazine before falling asleep. It’s hard work being creative. He didn’t even open his paperback – Clive Barker’s “Mister B. Gone” – which was a relief. You don’t want demons getting loose on a Boeing 747.

I didn’t even bother with the silly little triangular things that were masquerading as sandwiches on the return flight. But, I did partake of the red wine.

And so back home

 

 

A Tale of Two Hotels

C and I enjoyed a glorious weekend at the Goodwood Revival , an historic race meeting which celebrates the classic and classy in the period 1948 to 1964. It was awesome. The weather was fantastic. Foolishly we set out on day one without any sun cream. Consequently by that evening I looked as if my head was boiled (it’s the rosacea!) At least it wasn’t sore, unlike Lesley’s chest – we could have cooked eggs on that. And in some respects I wish we had. It would have been much, much better than the “food” we were served in the so-called hotel.

Indeed, the weekend was as much about the contrast between the two hotels we stayed at. On the Friday night we stayed at the Arrow Mill Hotel which sits in splendour opposite Ragley Hall.

The hotel is owned by two wonderful, friendly, and characterful hosts, Denis (who arrived very late in a shockingly striped blazer after rather too long at the 19th hole), and, the lovely Margaret, who blessed us with her company and good humour and who belies her 70 years. The staff were excellent. The food was excellent (they have a Nepalese chef who put on a curry banquet for us). The rooms were gorgeous – C and I had a four-poster. And, the beer was good. Consequently, our group of nine (including sister-in-law D, her partner Smithy and 5 of their friends) looked a little jaded over our bacon and egg. While C and I had retired around half past midnight, the lads had apparently still been putting the world to right past 3am and making good use of the honesty bar.

Our second hotel, for Saturday night, promised much too. The New Place De Vere near Southampton:

Their website claims “The name might be New Place but this Grade I listed manor house, set in 32 acres of lush parkland, is full of period charm……From the moment you drive through the wrought iron gates and up the driveway you know you’ve chosen the perfect Hampshire meeting venue.” Yeah right. It is a glorified Travel Lodge. I feel a complaint to the advertising standards agency coming on.

Our room, once we eventually found it, was nice enough. But modern – not a smidgen of “period charm” in the place. Mind you, it took some finding as the signage in the place was appalling. Instead of pointing us straight up one flight of stairs it took us all around the Wrekin (a Midland expression for going an unnecessarily long and circuitous route).

Most disturbing was the attitude of the staff. The two year old at reception (he sported several earrings!) was abrupt and unhelpful. He advised us that the restaurant was fully booked and was unapologetic and lacking in alternatives, seemingly content for us all to go without. Indeed, he even omitted to mention that their bar served bar meals! And so to the bar……..

No “period charm” here either. Indeed, the lighting in the bar was as subdued as the light beam at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. Or, I suppose it could have been the glow from my head and Lesley’s chest……. And we found ourselves sat beneath speakers that were banging out some rather irritating hip-hop music, which was hardly conducive to chat and banter. The evening, therefore, consisted of a form of music tennis – we would ask for the music to be turned off, and then, another group in the bar who clearly did not feel the need to engage in conversation, would insist that it be turned back on.

We ordered bar snacks from the one menu they had (between 9). Our “food” arrived at various points during the evening (the concept of us wanting to eat together seemed beyond them). I had cardboard on a bun (which had been advertised as a burger). Our dirty plates seemed destined to outstay our visit, until D asked for them to be removed.

But then, the late previous night and a day in the sun got the better of us all and we retired early – around 11pm – and I spent the next couple of hours listening to the guy in the next door room snoring, and, climbing the wall! Have English hotels never heard of soundproofing? And, incidentally, why don’t they ever give you more than one small bottle of shower gel and shampoo?!?

By the way, SatNav let me down! Badly. I have an in-built system in the car. It is supposedly a super-duper system with real time updates which recalculates your route in the event of traffic problems and should you be foolish enough to ignore its directions. Now C has never been a fan of SatNav. She gets irritated by the voice and constantly disbelieves the advice that is given. So, en route to Goodwood (day one) we used SatNav to navigate our way from the Arrow Mill via the M40, M25 and the A3. But, once we got within spitting distance of the venue, C decided she new better. She chose to ignore the command “take the next junction”. She chose to ignore the helpfull bright-yellow sign declaring “All Goodwood traffic turn left”. And, we spent the next half an hour sitting in roadworks!

Words were exchanged. C declared that she would never, ever navigate again. Ever. Never. And so, that evening I had to entrust myself to SatNav to get us to our piece of “period charm”. Despite setting off a good 45 minutes earlier than the rest of our group we arrived at the same time. SatNav had deemed it better to go through the middle of Chichester rather than use the ring road. SatNav deposited me within a street or two of the hotel (we only had the post code) but it took a good 20 minutes or so of trawling up and down badly lit streets before we found it. C looked pretty smug. C still looks pretty smug. Damn you SatNav. This will come back to haunt me.

But, for the Goodwood experience it was all worth it. Now I am by far a Petrol Head and wouldn’t know an Austin Healy if I fell over one. But, I loved it all. Most people had dressed in appropriate costume (anything for the period 1948 to 1964). A few Johnny Foreigners had got it wrong – there were a number of 1920s slappers and flappers around with Italian accents. I was a James Herriot lookalike – sporting a flat cap, and a vintage tweed jacket that I had bought on the web and which smelled of dead people, and with a vintage pipe and pair of binoculars which I had found in an antique shop. C looked stunning dressed in a vintage 1950s dress, with vintage gloves and bag, and some gorgeous red shoes to boot:

We saw Murray Walker, Sterling Moss, and Jackie Stewart. We drank Pimms. We saw air displays, including a couple by the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight- Smithy’s brother was flying the Spitfire. We drank Pimms. We sat in the sun. We people watched. We had burgers from a van. We drank Pimms. It was Hell! So much so that we have decided that this is to be a regular event in Middle Man’s social calendar.

Thank you all who shared it with us. Here are a few photos.

Classic cars outside the Goodwood Shop

Jackie Stewart

Smithy and Murray Walker

Sterling Moss

Spitfire and Hurricane

Dad

The Glamour Girls

Lancaster Bomber

Race Start

Spitfire

And Then The Knob Fell Off……

I had to fly in and out of Schiphol Amsterdam airport again this week. This was a bit of a shock to the system because my 4am get-up followed a leisurely two week holiday. 4 am doesn’t look good from any angle, but especially when you have to drive yourself to the airport.

The second shock to the system was the new security and departure arrangements at Manchester Airport. You now have to go upstairs, where you will be lost for quite some time in a queuing system akin to that you might find when they open a new ride at Alton Towers. It is slow. Lots of grumpy bleary-eyed red-faced holiday makers and stressed businessmen shuffling behind each other with all the enthusiasm of shackled prisoners walking the Green Mile.  I felt like shouting at some of the parents with kids: “Why aren’t your kids at school!” The schools here have gone back a good week or so at least, so clearly these parents were prioritising a cheap week in Marbella ahead of their progenies’ education. Mind you, the kids themselves did not look overly concerned.

Consequently, they were already boarding my plane when I arrived. This did not help my stress level as, as regular readers will know, I like to board early in order to ensure I have space for my luggage in the overhead lockers, and, so that I can check out the other passengers as they file past…….checking for potential hijackers and terrorists and the like (see here and here for a better explanation). Nevertheless I boarded fine and tried to reconnect with my human side after the trials and tribulations of the early start, the dash to the airport, the queue and the rather disgusting egg and cheese sandwiches that were served as my breakfast.

I was relieved, however, that my trip this week was to be a short one. I was keen to avoid travelling on Thursday, it being the 7th anniversary of 9/11. Al Qaida seems to have a thing for anniversaries and for the number seven. I was also a tad concerned that I would spend my last seconds alive in a foreign land as a result of the Big Bang (Large Hadron Collider) experiment in Switzerland creating a black hole and causing the end of the world or something.

So, it was somewhat with relief that I found myself safe and sound back at Schiphol airport in good time to make my flight home, having survived the two hour drive from Doetinchem to Amsterdam – my boss, who was driving, seems to get a speeding fine every other trip and likes to change lanes as the best mechanism for ensuring he stays awake!

At the airport I bought a newspaper and read all about the collapse of the Liquid Bombers Terror Trial – which was probably not the best material to be reading just ahead of boarding a plane. In good time I made my way to gate D6, knowing that this was a security check and holding area ahead of boarding the shuttle bus which takes you to the plane. Exiting via D6 makes it even more difficult to ensure that you are amongst the first to board as, a) there is no obvious place to stand/queue in order to ensure that you are first on the first bus (it generally requires two busses to ferry all passengers to the plane) so people push in, b) you need to know where to stand on the bus to facilitate a quick exit at the optimum position to be amongst the first up the steps of the plane. This is not as easy as it may sound because there are doors on both sides of the bus and there are three doors on either side. Usually the middle door on the right side is best but you still have to gamble on how close to the plane the driver will park. Also, you cannot always retain your position on the bus due to people pushing and frequent requests to “move further inside please”. Today, my desire to be amongst the first group was even greater due to the fact that I was sitting in row 1, meaning that my overhead luggage compartment options were limited and I would not be allowed to place my bag near my feet. Also, it was a smaller plane which meant that if you couldn’t stow your luggage it would be removed to the hold which would mean a further hour of one’s life being wasted at the luggage carousel at the other end.

Gate D6 was horrible. It was hot and everyone was a little sweaty and agitated. The queue for security was long and chaotic due to a number of drunk Geordies who had left it to the last minute to leave the bar and head to the gate for their flight to Humberside – they pushed to the front. Security was strict, so, the laptop had to come out of my bag, and, my see-through resealable liquid bag was checked (a bit of a worry as a colleague who had flown via Birmingham had had her’s tested and her shampoo had tested positive for traces of explosive – mind you, if you could see the shocking red colour of her hair you could see how this was possible . They also insisted that I removed my shoes and my belt. It is not the most pleasant experience being frisked by a large, sweaty security guard when you are half naked and trying to hold up your trousers!

Fortunately, I positioned myself leaning against the optimal pillar to be first through the ticket check to get on the bus. The wait until boarding was thankfully brief as, as well as being hot, I was becoming irritating by the annoying spiv who was walking up and down in front of me talking loudly into his mobile and by all the elderly people who insist on going to the desk to confirm “is this the flight to Manchester?” – can’t they read the bloody sign?! I was third on the bus, behind a Chinese couple who pushed in the queue just ahead of me. I was able to retain my optimal position on the bus. The driver parked optimally. I was second up the stairs, stowed my bag successfully and sat down to survey the cabin crew and passengers. This was far from ideal, however, as most of the passengers seemed to be carrying large, heavy bags and insisted on bashing them into my shoulder (I was in the aisle seat of course) on the way past. Nevertheless we all boarded in time and they were just about to close the doors for an on-time departure……..when the doorknob on the door to the cockpit fell off!

They tried to fix it unsuccessfully with one of the stewardess’ harclips and a piece of chewing gum. It took them a further ten minutes or so to find a maintenance man with a  screwdriver. He seemed more intent on chatting up the stewardess than fixing the knob. They then decided the knob could not be fixed and that we would all have to offload, get back on the boss, and move to a different plane, which fortunately they had spare and fuelled. I did wonder why it would be quicker and easier to relocate a full plane of passengers with their luggage and to prep a new plane rather than, a) fixing the knob (presumably they could have used the one from the spare plane), or, b) swapping the door.

The joys of business travel eh?

Travel Is Fun

Don’t you just hate travelling on business at this time of year? Especially flying. This week I had to fly from Manchester to Amsterdam. As ever at this time of year the great unwashed are allowing their kids to bunk off school in order to take advantage of cheap flights and holidays to places like Spain, Turkey, and various other all-inclusive destinations strewn with British Bars (or Irish Pubs at the better places), advertising “English Breakfast”, “Sunday lunch with real Yorkshire pudding”, “karaoke”, “Sky Sports” and “Happy Hour”. You can spot people on the flight for Bodrum a mile off. Blackpool abroad. Morecambe in the sun. 

 

Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. They are muffin tops with bellies which hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter. 

There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.  

Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol. 

Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.” 

The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.

Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.