International Chappism (again)

In the words of many a GI heard in the 70's - I'm gonna get me some R 'n' R!

Or in other words sample the fragrant delights of my old home soon...... chickens feet, boiled rat and rampant unfettered capitalism.

Joy.

UPDATE:
No scotty - this is Hong Kong, not New York. Prole.

Now, I would walk five hundred miles!

Off to Jockland, where chaps wear skirts (I say!) soon with the Antipodean. Like any good tourist on holiday she will no doubt have a checklist of things to 'do'.

This has made me ponder: when does a 'Holiday' become 'Travelling'? Most of what the public call travelling - what Gap years, aimless over paid kiwis and the ubiqutous quoters of 'I Love Travelling' refer unto - I call Long Holidays.
In my mind 'travelling' = 'under one's own steam, intitiative and command'. Buying a ticket from Kiwiexpress overland special bus (Loo roll included) to me is an extended and somewhat dirty package holiday. Off the beaten track, interesting and a lot of fun, but a package tour, nonetheless.

Obviously if you strung a heap of these together, to build a unique voyage then it becomes somewhat more credible - but I feel the thrust of my argument remains. That is the difference between a fairground ride and an adventure. You can't buy tickets for real adventure.

If you disagree - consider this is what the very first concept of the package tour was.

Mr Thomas Cook invented it - his first one abroad in 1849 to Calais, so that the middle and working classes of Victorian England could experience his temperance excursions, (Modern eco tourism is a good comparison).
After that, they were sold as travelling adventures. particulalry in the Middle East.

Nowadays we look down on such things as nasty and cheap, and hold these trips for gappers and the like in some kind of higher esteem.
But remember, in the 1850s, A trip to Spain or Italy was as wild, exotic and far flung then, as these bundled trips over Central America or across the Serengheti might seem today.

It is worth considering, after all that the relief of Khartoum by sending troops up the Nile was done on ships rented from Thomas Cook. Napoleon's army was thrown out by Wellington - who was supplied by P+O.

Learn to navigate, learn the language, take a case of Lucky Strike, Johnny Walker and greenbacks (The language of border guard bribes everywhere) and sail, fly, ride drive yourself there. Ok, you may need to learn how to do those things - but I think that could be my point.
Slither your way about by your wits and charm as well, I say.

I think this could make me something of a snob.

Les Alpes or Bust

The hour is nigh.

At the wee hours of the morning I shall be loading the Alvis on to the boat train for Calais.

The horror of crossing the continent awaits.

Not only have I got the terrors of motorway services plumbing as they call it (Small-bore I call it) but the attentions of an over eager Gendarmerie hell bent on re-living De-Gaule's permanent denial of the Anglo-Saxon saviour hood of their nation - by trying to nab me for not obeying traffic laws more suited to a gauloise smoking peasant in a 2CV, than a lantern jawed chap about the continent in his souped-up motor.

How to speed my journey - or rather - how to minimise the horrors of having to stop?

The answer is to minimise wasted time mucking aorund at stops.

I have taken cues from my flying. In soaring, one is expected to endure 7+ hours solo in a cockpit whilst zippng about the clouds in the horsa.
Now, I reckon I will get about 7 hours endurance from a tank of fuel. I have a flask for weapons-grade coffee, and a non carb snack dispenser. But what if nature calls?

It works for pilots. It shall work for me.

I shall spare you the true horrors. Suffice to say, it is possible to have a widdle while flying a 'plane, it is therefore possible to have a safe, dry widdle when driving.

I will leave your imagination to work out the technicalities - but us glider pilots know how. Just as well I'm driving alone.

Still - I shall have 16 CDs of 'HMS Surprise' to listen to, a flask of coffee to consume and a tub of Foie-Gras to munch on. (Constipation under these circumstances is clearly to be applauded)
I even have a hundred old francs in gold, three pairs of silk stockings, a beret and a phrase book; lest I have to bail out somewhere over the Massif Centrale and make contact with the resistance.
Wish me luck, chaps. I shall let you know when I have arrived, buried my kit and started to shin up Schloss Adler.

PS: 'scuse typos. Spellcheck is down and it's nearly five.

Back, from outta space

Hello again reader dear.

As you are aware I have been off the grid for a bit. A couple of day's worth of yachting about Ibiza, with some exceptionally heavy drinking and some unfortunate food. I call it unfortunate as it has made me suffer a mild dose of the bloody flux.

We are not talking hallucinations and serious griping pain - but considerable discomfort has ensued and I am restricted in not being too far away from full-bore facilities, preferably with refrigeration close to hand.

Oh, the sailing was fine enough, the scenery is absolutely staggering - but all of us who passed through the apartment taken by my chums has suffered to some extent with 'the slackening'.

This has curtailed both my time and my blogging urges. It has even prevented me from the latest phase of my radio work this evening - which is fortunate as I completely failed to either revise True Bearing calls, nor prepared my flight plan. This I shall do tonight, hopefully between bouts of suffering terribly for my travels.

The only cure I can think of is a heroic dose of the old tincture, but Tesco won't sell it to me anymore and I daren't consume more than a thousand drops. Failing that I think I need to be bled and a slime draft.

More news to follow. If you are lucky it will be followed by sports and weather.

I will express my surprise, though, as in the brief interlude whilst I was off sunning myself and loafing about the White Isle - I return to find that Gordo has bottled the election, England beat Australia in the Rugby and we have even won a one day test series.

I should do these short breaks more often.

D-Day T Minus 15Hrs 20 mins

Our objective....

It is upon us at last.

The cellar space has been cleared, marker pens ready.

Tasting notes and detailed vineyard charts downloaded.

The Burgundy Report consulted and read assiduously.

Messrs Peninsular and Orient primed to carry us across La Manche.

Passport, Driving licence, travel rug and alfresco dining kit with corkscrew and china plates at the ready.

Flasks for ludicrously strong coffee prepared.

Sunglasses ready.

'The Reverse of the Medal' loaded and 'The Ionian Mission' on standby - lest we complete the first 12 hours worth of Patrick O'Brian and still need more.

The annual Chap pilgrimage to the Cotes begins.

This time tomorrow - I shall be pottering through golden leaved vines in the slanting autumn sunshine. The Route de la Cotes - the N74 shall take us south from Dijon - Gevery Chambertin, Nuits St Georges, Fixin, and Aloxe Corton bearing witness on the sign posts to the Elysium on earth we shall be inhabiting.

A night at Chez Jeanette - where if one selects the main course before the wine, an eyebrow is raised, and they fetch the 'tourist' wine list. Cuisine De Sauvage it may be - but situated in the Walled vines of the Clos du Napoleon one really ought to make an effort.

A day is to be spent in the tiny caves of the Crus and Villages of Beaujolais - Cote du Brouilly, Moulin a Vent and the almost ubiquitous Fleurie.

We shall drive along the granite outcrop which marks the difference between a grand Beaujolais - where the Gamay gives her best - from the gruesome nouveau of the plains.

Shall we repair to Macon? Lunch in Beaune? The decisions are almost too much without a bottle of wine to assist. The journey itself, though, is as much of a pleasure as the arriving and the tasting - with picnics to eat, fresh air to breathe and the sublime beauty of the first hints of autumn fringing the vines.

And finally - a last day in our favourite haunt - Echevronne. For tucked away in the Haute Cote du Beanue, amongst the Framboise and Cassis lies our ultimate target and biggest drain on my wallet.

The souls of my unborn have been sold in a terrible Faustian plot.

2005 is in the bottle, and awaits our degustation, after, of course, tasting the 06 dips and having a rummage in the bin ends.

We will get our hands on the finest vintage the Bourgogne has ever produced and get it in spades.

Oh, and I shall be blogging from down there as well.

Our accommodation provides Internet access, so this chap will be able to send you the latest views and news from my travels. I sincerely hope that I am well fed, very much discombobulated in wine and have plenty of news and views to blog about. Not just what we had for dinner - (but saying that I do fancy Lapin Dijonaisse again…)

Au revoir for now dear reader - for I shall be deep in enemy territory when you hear from me again.

Drifting home to Lymington

It was indeed a pleasant weekend on the waves, despite it being utterly devoid of wind.

The boat the Scot had arranged was capacious, excessively comfortable and it basically sailed itself.

There were features aboard to which I have a religious objection in British waters - chiefly the presence of bow thrusters and a fully automated windlass operated from the binnacle.
I am sorry to report that our natural revulsion to such toys was rapidly overcome - and there was joy to be had - chiefly in seeing if we could combine an astern prop walk with a countered rudder and a bow thruster to see if we could actually make the whole boat go sideways.

We had absolute newbies aboard too - and I fear their sailing has been spoiled for such opulent luxury means that when they come to do some proper sailing they will be sorely disappointed.
The sun shone and the wine flowed freely - and as such when august company like this gathers - matters soon turn to discussions of unusual natures - particularly as the sailing was very gentle - we had time to dissemble.

One of these conversations stuck in my mind in particular - and I reflected on it on the way home.

One chap aboard was a keen windsurfer and decried the slow pace of yachting about (That's kind of the point in my mind). In particular the discussion hung around whether or not a race carried out at speeds of under 3 knots (walking pace) could actually be in anyway exciting? In some ways - he had a point. Spending a day carefully trimming a sail by an inch in either direction compared to launching skyward at 25 knots are worlds apart.

The hypothesis offered by myself was that as in life as with racing - sometimes it is that slow-burn - the long careful anticipation and chess master tactics required for a challenge like this which deliver the most satisfying excitement.

A wet and wild day where we are physically challenged is one thing - but a day where we need to maintain patient yet total focus over 6 hours when little appears to be going on is often more exhausting and more satisfying a challenge.

I believe it is in effect two different types of problem. Each problem obviously has it's own solution set: A long problem - to move slowly yet determinedly in the belief that your goal will be achieved through patient careful work and sticking with your tactics - compared the raw physical short problem of clinging to the rail in a force 9.

One is fast and furious - makes for great television and is exciting. The other - can be described as watching paint dry - yet it is still race and it is still winnable. It just takes a lot of patience.
I feel there is a parallel in the difficult problems our society face today.
We have become obsessed with the former type of 'race'. Fast, furious, quick results, glory and celebration of those involved.

Unfortunately I think that many of the problems we face as a country can't be fixed like that. We set hares to fix tortoise races - and become disappointed to the point of cynicism when the races are lost. Our culture now demands instant fixes and instant refreshment from problems. But I wonder - if it has taken 30 years for our polite society to decline - can a few quick extra laws, celebrity politicians and press conference solve it?

Long, slow problems may need long slow answers - for quick ones never quite work.
But long slow answers don't make good sound bites.

But I digress.

The sailing was pleasant - if a little crowded at the western end of the Solent - and the Needles were splendid in the early evening light.
Decided to pop in to Lymington to give our new crew a taste of venturing forth there and experience the joys of the river. Which were made ever more joyful by the presence of hot showers and cold champagne.

Ultimately well refreshed, we repaired to a rather good restaurant where we dined upon crab thermidor and fresh sardines amongst other things.

Unfortunately the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, for once my captainly duties were discharged on return, I collapsed into my bunk only to awake fully clothed the following morning with a hangover from Hades.

The crew (bless 'em) had seen fit to remove my shoes and cover me in a sleeping bag. Mind you, they probably though I kept my banknotes in my shoes and were snaffling them for another run ashore.

The only reason why I love the EU

A title that would enrage the Devil himself, but my wits are not so discombobulated in laudanum - for I have one very good reason.

Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.

No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.

In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.

In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.

I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).

This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.

I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.

It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.

Thank you France.

As Emma Hamilton said: 'Could it Possibly be...?'

Yes, I am returnéd.

A week of ploughing the sea, contemplating the wonders of the deeps, escaping the mighty Kraken and quietly pickling myself in only the very finest crown-capped retsina.
As my wits over the many years have been roundly addled by years of pharmaceutical and alcoholic abuse, I have kept a log, a journal as it were - not only of the matters maritime as one should - but also of the thoughts and observations of the environ and the crew.

They make for revealing reading as to the character of the trip.

Circumspection means that they are currently in for editing - for in their raw un-distilled and un-matured state they make for a heady brew of high adventure and even higher living - and some of the topics in their pure form may be too strong a liquor for my readership. (And I dare not risk the wrath of the First Mate who has a far better memory and who has kept an alternative, lest my delusions of grandeur soar too high).

I will publish installments as the week wears on - and I get the hamster wheel back up to speed.

In the mean time - I now have skin of the appearance of old shoe leather and everything tastes vaguely of pine disinfectant - or is it retsina...?

I may even hazard a peek at the news and general current affairs - but I fear it is as a disgusting a sight to any sea-farer as the one that beheld me on Saturday - that of the yacht I had sailed for a week being equipped with an American flag on the port crosstree the very moment I hauled down my colours. (Well-wishers will be pleased to know that their eye was truly wiped when they sought my counsel on the appropriate application of chain as an anchor warp in Aegean waters! Even my First mate was moved to join in the discourse - and she is most taciturn under such circumstances.)

But anyway - I am back. Tales of derring-do, drinking and debauchery abound.

Tis to glory we steer!

I am delighted to report that the Beloved has seized her duties as First Mate on my Aegean mission with both hands. She has been poring over the Greek Waters Pilot with vim, vigour and verisimiltude.

However, she has taken over the packing of the medical chest.

Her exposure to the Good Books are limited - a cursory flick through M+C being the best she has managed so far.
Therefore my demands for Coca Leaves, 200 pints of Laudanum, Steel Bark, Blue Pill, Slime Draft, Portable Soup and a Trephine Saw have been met so far with at best her Gimlet Stare, and at worst The Steely Silence (Chills the blood like a banshee's howl, dontchyerknow.)

Even more worrying were the things suggested for 'My Own Good.' Gone was the Rhubarb cure, replaced with things like Immodium. (I mean - if I get liverish, is it not the Captain's duty to sweat and strain on his seat of ease?)
Sunblock? I mean, what on earth am I to do with SP30?
How am I to maintain my raffish weathered looks if I apply sun cream? At best Castrol GTX, at worst Zinc Oxide.

Still, revenge shall be mine when I superglue Uffa Fox into the boat CD player.

In parallel to this, She has been arranging her return of the cultural exchange by a trip to the English Lakes.I have been reviewing her notes on this and I am already planning the most nonchalent set of cufflinks to be seen in 'O'er Dale'.
Despite all the activities she has prescribed seeming rather healthy and chappy, it does give the impression of being dangerously close to requiring that modern evil 'Gore-Tex'.
Tradition when faced with this would be to take her to the local steeple and demand that I am shown the real 'North Face'.

I do have one reservation: we seem to be accompanied by a northern sounding cove called Wainwright.
I am disturbed as she is claiming that we will be 'doing some of him' - a reference I sincerely hope is not some gruesome troilistic ritual.

My First Officer, at Nautical school.

I can assure you that they were fresh when they were frozen, sir.

Welcome! Welcome!

This sorry tale starts on Saturday.

riiiing!

'Hello, I would like to reserve a room, please. It is for myself and I require the room on Tuesday and Wednesday.'

'Oh sorry sir, reservations only work weekdays.'

Pause. Gather breath.

'You are a hotel are you not?'

'Sir.'

'In which case - I would like to reserve a room, please.'

'OK sir, I will have a go....(muffled giggles)......Which Nights was it sir??

'As I said, Tuesday and Wednesday.'

'Both nights'.

'Remarkable that isn't it - I request a room for two nights, and I would wish to stay for both of them, that must never happen.'

'Sorry sir, but you want both nights?'

'Yes.'

'Just yourself is it?'

'Indeed. I mentioned that before too.'

'And you want the same room for both nights?'

'Please.'

'Just yourself - no one else on the booking?'

I am now starting to think she is making game of me.

'Yes please. Me. Myself. I want a room for two nights, being Tuesday AND Wednesday.'

'I see sir....'

'Do you?'

'Right sir what name please?'

I tell her my name and the firm and our corporate rate. My usual hotel 'The Strange', know me by now, and merely the sweetest tinkling of my voice normally suffices. They were full this week, however, so I am denied my well kept cellar and decent menu.

Instead I am having to rely on one of these bloody chains.

'What address please sir?'

'I can see no earthly reason why you require my address. Every time I have stayed with you, you request it. If you stored it, you would no longer require it, merely confirmation of my postcode. If you did not store it, then you would have no use for it at all.'

She read my post code back to me.

'All booked sir - can you send a confirmation from your work email please?'

'Not now.'

'Why not sir?'

'I am not at work. It is Saturday.'

'Oops sorry silly me.'

Interlude.

Tuesday afternoon.

'Good afternoon R--J-- York.'

'My name is D- and I have a reservation.'

Clickety-tip-tap.

'No sir, no reservation for you, when did you book?

'Saturday'

'Ah well reservations aren't on duty on Saturday.'

'She did seem a bit hard of thinking.'
I proceed to recount the highlights of my fun from Saturday.

'I'm terribly sorry sir, I have reserved you a room, may I have your card number.'

Financials were transacted.
Arrangements made.
Bookings procured.

And so it cam to pass that I arrived at the hotel.

Chirpy individual of smiling ability greets me.

'Good evening sir!'

'My name is D----. I have a reservation.'
Furious tapping ensues.

'Ah sir, there doesn't appear to be one here. What's your address please?'

Deep breath.
Count carefully: One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, check canopy.

I thus regaled the young lady with the woes previously recorded here.

She apologised and tapped furiously. Again,
A quick check on my post code, and I did exist and had two reservations.

No I only need one room.

It is only me.

I am only staying for two nights.

I do not need the second room, it is their fault it has been booked.

No, no one else is joining me.

She gives me a particularly vapid smile.

'Would you like a free copy of the Independent, sir?'

'Not if you paid me.'

I trundle up to the room.

The Door is ajar...so I enter and behold a couple sat on the end of the bed, chatting merrily to one of the liveried running-girls.

'My room...?'

'Sorry sir - we are using this for demonstrations'

'You need to demonstrate what a hotel room is...?'

'It is our open day.'

Oh, closed normally are you?'

'Do follow me to reception sir...'

The woman at the desk sensed my impending ire. A single raised eyebrow produced a bottle of complimentary wine with my dinner. The second raised eyebrow produced the porter for my dunnage and a free newspaper. (Telegraph, natch.)

Surprisingly the severe matron who runs the restaurant recognised me, and placed me a goodly distance away from the children. (Why do people with children take them to hotels - can't they afford boarding kennels?)
I appear to be in my very own situation comedy. Nowadays, the staff are Polish, not Spanish.

Driving Miss Daisy

Good post over at Sigismund to take our mind off the Soviet nonsense going on at the Kremlin - sorry Downing street...... clearly he is going for a script writer job for Mr Clarkson.

One build - take away the engine, and replace it with having to rely on natural atmospherics to stay aloft and you kind of have the gliding thing. Still have to do map works, radios, dodge other planes zipping about at cloud base and the nearest thing to a carrier launch in civvy street.
I do agree - some of us can navigate and communicate whilst aviating / driving.

Other news:

Chicken Yog has a good point on the Blair legacy. Here.

Fez doffed affectionately to the The Sultry Journalist..

Holiday reading

I have a loud hailer as well, lest my audience try and flee.

UPDATE:

Yes, I know it is strictly the Aegean, and the Dodecanese but it's a tradition, OK?

Chap's Vacation

At last!
I have finally organised something approaching a summer holiday for myself.
Details, are of course at this stage, highly classified. However it can be certain to contain the following 'features':
Lording it up over grateful natives
Lantern Jawed Determination on the High Seas
Sweltering in desert-like heat
Eating food as yet unknown to man.

As it is likely to be both South and East of Gibraltar, I will be required to dig out my Tropical Kit.
Sandals - whilst normally the preserve of fundamentalist Christians and Hirsute Environmentalists - will be certainly be de-rigeur at least for day wear.

However - standards being what they are - one should dress appropriately for functions at the local High Commission, dinners with the obsequious mayor, negotiations with the Pasha Bey or leading the local rebels to the latest Coup d'etat.
(Point worthy of note here to my more political readers - one attends these things in the station to which one is naturally appointed - not brandishing pitchforks nor toting the requisite AK47 but Genteelly trotting up to the front of the line aloft one's white charger and issuing one's demands to El Presidente in perfect RP English: 'I'm sorry Old Chap, game's up - the lads here have taken the TV station and want your head on a plate - If I were you old son, I'd leave the Krugerand, take the memsahib and scarper - for they grow fractious by the minute...)

This calls for pristine starched whites, tan sam-browne, tan Brogues and my finest tropical Pith Helmet. the Nile medal and the Chelengk always impresses the local pashas as well.

I have already sent them off to the laundry for extra pressing and have selected my Steward for the Voyage.
More updates to follow. Have already started re-reading The Ionian Mission for inspiration.

Lessons from T'North

Life's rich tapestry has ways of teaching you little lessons. They normally come when you are off your guard and catch you quite unawares. After all - does nemesis not always follow hubris?

1. Human Resources.
Try what you will - it is the innate programming of HR to seek to discombobulate one's wits to the extent you let slip juicy nuggets of information. Duplicity is their nature - which is why they are always depicted as cats.
Even if they are being pleasant - they will ply one with drink anyway if nothing else to see what happens.

2. Electric Telephones.
A fool and his phone are always attached. Never a good idea if one is suffering from any degree of discombobulation howsoever caused. Do not make telephone calls, especially not where a degree of sensitivity or circumspection is required. You will regret it.

3. Breakfast.
Always eat hearty when you can - especially before going into action. If you see the Chief Executive munching his brekky, do not speak to him. Or make eye contact.
(Oh gosh sir, yor eg is all runy)

I have fallen foul of lessons 1 and 2. Fortunately my judgement was intact enough to avoid lesson 3.

The clever souls here in York sell Alka Seltzer in Ye Olde Staffe Shoppe.

Strategic Incompetence

On rare occasions one loses one's sang-froid. This manifests it self normally if one has been out of reach of the laudanum bottle for a while and the old juices start their crave and one's temper starts to fray.

My giving up tobacco probably contributes.

What frays my tether more than anything else is the idiotic getting in my way of slithering around like the stainless steel snake that I am and allowing me to create the appearance of effortless caddishness.
What good is the winning smile, the gleam in the eye and the softly spoken nugget of filth if it looks like one has been seen paddling like billio under the surface to achieve this grace like state of rakish charm?

It lets the side down, chaps, it lets the side down.

I recently had occasion to procure the services of a purveyor of plant blooms for delivery to addresses in London.
Not, I assure you, in some tawdry attempt to apologise for a crime - oh no - more, shall we say, to lay the ground work for the leading astray of a young lady unused as yet to the wiles of my dubious charms.
As my acquainted readers know - once the trap is set, there is no escape and the inexorable drive to depravity and moral turpitude is as inevitable as a French Air Traffic strike on a Bank Holiday.

One would naturally assume that as such an adventure is the very meat and drink to such an establishment - they would be well versed in the motives of such activities, and therefore their handling agents would be well versed in the necessary levels of alacrity and required prejudice to effect their chosen objectives.

Oh no.

Why, should I - the customer - have to chase these Cro-Magnon numbskulls to find out there has been a delivery failure?
This is modern Britain. I am old enough to remember the 'good old days' when everything was nationalised and customers were a nuisance and got in the way. You used to have chase up everyday and be treated with rudeness.
Now - I grant you these people were not rude, they were just incompetent. This I believe to be a factor of the fact we have too few unemployed in this country - but that is one for my economics editor to argue.

In the end. I despaired sufficiently to telephone them to ask them what they were about.

'Have the goods been delivered?' Asked after negotiating their switchboard
'No.'
'And at what point was I going to find this out?'
'Er………'
'And what were you going to do about it?'
'Er………'
'OK,' applying my knowledge of modern supply chains, 'have you got a failed POD or refusal note?'
'Yes sir'.
'And it says…..?'
'Not known at this address.'
Hmmm……thinks cross check details as subtly as possible without losing the initiative…..
'When'
'About 9.30 this morning'
'So five hours ago.'
'Sir.'
'Any redelivery attempts made?' Ye gods I am pulling teeth…..
'Errrr……..'
'Check the refusal record against the POD.'
'Yes sir at 13.00.'
'And? Apparently refused again. Wrong address.'.
'OK have you checked the Post code against the RM-PAF records.'
'No sir, hold on' (I hear some tapping)
'The address does verify, sir'.
'OK so we have a crisis of competence from either delivery or reception.'
'Errrr……...'
'Right - what I would like you to do is this. Update the Re-delivery. Set it to fresh batch. Not the ones that have been kicking around the back of the van all day.'
'Sir'
'OK now go to the delivery settings - and put it to FIRAV by 10.00 please.'
'Sir. Ok done that - but there is a surcharge for timed delivery.'
'Only if you haven't cocked up. You have and you will provide this to me for recompense for you failing to achieve your single stated aim - and the fact the address is about 175 yards from your door.'
'Sir.'
'OK. I would like a call as soon as the you have a verified POD from the Ship-To, ok?
'Errr……..'
'Correct answer is 'Yes sir, and we apologise for the inconvenience caused the staggering incompetence of my organisation. It is, afterall your job to deliver flowers. I pay you to go to an adress not 175 yards from your office with said blooms and deliver them. A heruculean task that your organisation has failed to achieve twice one day! It is not the North face of the Eiger, the sunbaked sands of the Serengeti or the frozen wastes of the Siberian Tyga - but two streets away from you. Your drivers do this all the time, and therefore must be suitably versed in getting their items delivered - are they not?
'Yessir.'
'Good, now go and make it so.'
-click- I had had enough

Grrrrrr………………………

It is worth mentioning that this conversation was conducted over the wireless telegraphy unit in the Alvis.

I had since arrived at my hotel in the Wirral.

I have been unfortunate enough to have been using this god-awful establishment for the last 10 years.
On not one occasion has it ever been satisfactory, but it is 200 yards from the office.

Check in. I announce my name.

'Can I have your address and business name sir?'
'You mean the details I booked with?'.
'Errrrrr……..'
'Correct answer is yes, Sir'
'Ah yes, so sorry'. What's your address please sir?
'Same as every time I have used this establishment in the last 3 years.'
'Errrrr………'

I sigh. Yet again the fuckwits of the world have united to confound me. I finally lost my normally polite self, and started to become sarcastic.

'Is there someone here who has not been hired today?'
A frantic scurrying and a Hazel Blears look-alike in glasses appears.
'Hello sir, I am the manager'
'And how long have you worked here? Twenty of your finest North-western minutes?
'Fifteen years sir'
'You have clearly reached your zenith and for that you have my pity. I have been using this place for 10 years, and you still show me the respect of not a regular customer, but of one who has bowled in off the street and demanded the use of your wheelie bin to sleep in. You have not even taken the trouble to learn who I am and thereby create even the slightest impression of welcome.'

'Well'….she looks at her screen taps furiously ' Well N----' you don't know my name'.

In military circles, this is called the 'tipping point'.

'Correct, I do not know your name. It is not my business to know your name, however, You are paid to know me, not me to know you. You have a name badge to allow me to address you with your name should I wish to do so. I also believe that under most circumstances those names should be printed in reverse script so that you can see your name with your face when you look in the mirror, obviating the requirement for you to grapple with the lofty concerns of remembering who your are AND what you look like at the same time. Oh, and it is Mr. D---- to you. I do not recall being introduced to you by my Christian name.'

'I'm very sorry N-- errr…. Mr D----'

'As for service - I have been using a hotel in another city - which I might add costs less per night than this and they have the good thinking to not only check their arrivals list, but they have take the effort of learning my tastes and the chef preparing a recommendation on my evening meal and a personal wine selection. He is normally right. On the other hand the only difference in menus here in the last 10 years is the paper they have been printed on.
Now, I will have a call at 06.30, a Daily Telegraph and pot of strong tea at exactly that time outside my room.'

'There is a small surcharge for the Telegraph sir…the Independent is free…' she tailed off after seeing my face.

''They give the Independent away at every hotel in the country - which is the only reason it has any readership at all. I would not use it to line the cage of a crapulescent budgerigar, certainly less read it. Do I sound like the sort of window licking socialist windbag who would read such trash?'
'I read it sir, it's ok.'
'Quite. My room key please.'

It didn't end there.

Two minutes later I am at reception.

'Do you employ cleaners in this hotel?'
'Yes sir'
'And they actually clean the rooms, rather than sit about reading Closer magazine and picking their expanding noses?'
'Is your room dirty sir? Let me change it right away.'
'There is a magic combination here - let me try it out'
'Sir?'
'Bathroom, Stout, Pubic and Hair.'
'I'm so sorry sir.' I will have your bags moved immediately. Would you like a complimentary drink at the bar?'
'Yes. I will have a large bloody mary with a full teaspoon of Tabasco, three not two, three, twists of black pepper, a single slice of lemon and no ice, plus a celery stick. If this is not achieved to the letter advise the barman I will horsewhip him and have you crucified at noon. Am I perfectly clear?
She smiled - despite the hardships thrown in my way - I am still smiling.
'Yessir' She said with a smile.
'Good. I shall be on the sofa. Carry on.'
'Sir.'
She carried on and a half decent bloody mary was duly delivered.
Having to share buildings with the baser forms of commercial traveller is bad enough. But expecting me to tolerate their standards of service is beyond the pale.

One glimmer of good news - is that the few simple blooms I sent to the young lady did indeed make her smile - and the smile of a pretty lady is as narcotic as the beat of an angel's wings or the first sip of champagne at on the train to work.

Frozen Wastes

T'North - Both sides today - Yorkshire and the Wirral.


I am looking forward to cones, roadworks and mile upon mile of jam.


Still, Donna the Lodger has moved in - bringing her dog with her. Solid beast, is he.


Full sized mastiff, with long tail and gallons of slobber.











This is not him, but he does look like him.

Giddy Up!

That's it. Up with this, I will no longer put.
Having returned to chez-chap to find Alan the Cambridge Coolie still grinding away at the tiles I was hoping for material progress.
I am pleased that I have a bathroom floor and walls - but they still lie un-grouted. Splashbacks have gone on the walls in the scullery - but there are a few minor snags with the electrical sockets (not to mention my eye-sockets).

However - the dust has finally got to me, and I have fled to my operations north of the frozen frontier.

There is a race meet on here, but unlike the Derby or Ascot, York seems to be full of plump girls and women from Leeds in their finest designer chavery. You know the sort - Designer sunglasses, Debenhams dresses and spiky shoes. The train was full of them this morning, drinking Bacardi Breezers (Tart fuel) on the 07:19.
I am sure there is a suitable pithy phrase to sum-up the sort I mean. All cash and flash but continually chewing gum in the street? (A chum suggests 'Northern' - but I fear trash is endemic throughout the country.)
No, a chap's wits are tested to the limit by this, as it is often not possible to divine the true nature until one of these bejewelled pachyderms dains to speak. Then one has to mutter dark words about being late for one's proctologist and beat a hasty retreat.
Going to the races used to be a mark of breeding. Nowadays it is full of the most odious sorts of people, including hen parties and the like. So I have some words of advice for coping with the melee, sorting the wheat from the chaff and allowing one's self to pass the time in a Northern Town with a Race meet without incident.

1. Never on any account go to Doncaster. I cannot state this highly enough.

2. True Breeding doesn't need expensive finery to show. Certainly one may wear a Saville Row suit, or the finest shirts, but at an occasion like this it marks you as part of the spiv class. A simple Norfolk Jacket, with appropriate trousers and a brown trilby. It is also one of the occasions when you are permitted to wear brown brogues mid week. Jockey's silks may get you entrance to the riders enclosure, thereby gleaning some useful tips on form, but you are also likely to encounter some of the jockeys themselves - and they are renowned for their brutal and predatory sexual nature amongst themselves. An interloper may awake after a scuffle to find their body-hair waxed, and faces painted on your buttocks for devilment unknown.

3. Ladies - it is not Ladies day at Royal Ascot, you are in a provincial town at a minor race meet of less than 500 guineas. Dressing like an ostrich marks you out as the primark classes and leads the rest of us to suspect you live in velour leisure suits. Pink wellingtons will make you look pointless and a townie. Flat cap and puffa jacket merely says Sloane. I recommend that if you insist on coming then hunting tweeds or tiger calicoes will suffice.

4. Drinking on the train - unless it in the Dining car marks you out as either an off duty nurse or a soldier. Smoking is now prohibited, so I recommend that one uses the handy table tops to cut and snort liberal amounts of cocaine. Coach B is the quiet coach, Therefore no one can say anything.
If you are fortunate to have a reservation to take breakfast, make sure you enjoy the full English. Anything less is a waste of tablecloth space. If you order at King's Cross you also get the added delights of the watching the waiter stagger up the aisle with a tray of steaming bacon as you negotiate the points at Welwyn North - with the usual low-gravity antics involved.

5. Finally. If questioned by the locals - it is perfectly permissible to invent racing tips: 'Dead-Dog at the 3.15 is a dead cert at 100:1, old boy'. If said with the right look in the eye, the locals will take the cut of your cloth to imply you are an owner or the like, naturally taking you for a man of your word will go and place his entire week's wage earned at the coal mine on the horse. Amusement will be derived when you summon the constable to have the man removed as a penniless vagrant - and taken to the work house. The socially minded among you can offer to send your washing round to his wife so she can earn while we breaks rocks.