Sunday, 21 December 2014
Friday, 10 October 2014
SCALEYRADIO 33 It's here! The long awaited show with the Lloydmeister himself, dropping in, not for a bath, but to play some tunes for us. You will hear, Soundgarden, The Cure, John Mayall, Stanley Clarke, The Doors and lots more. Cassette Treasure Trove this show is courtesy of RUSTAN LEFIN in Sweden and even The Vinyl Vault features three from The Lloydmeister's playlist. What a audio avalanche!
Friday, 12 September 2014
Friday, 22 August 2014
MONDAY AUGUST 18th.....I'M SORRY I HAVEN'T A CLUE!
What a last day! It dawned on us yesterday that we would have a whole day to kill in Boston as our flight was late in the evening. We had an unplanned day in front of us, we would have to improvise. As it turned out it was a cracking day which started with a walk in the park following a hearty fast food breakfast at Au Pan Vit which had become our favourite eating place due to a multiple of facts. Firstly, as a self serve, no tipping was required. You simply dictated your order and it was produced, quickly. Merlin and I had been actually wondering how much of our money had departed as tips since we arrived. At least a couple of hundred dollars. So this joint was a Godsend, especially on the last day , when like the sands of time, dollars in the wallet were running out and needed serious eking. Secondly, they did a pretty good lobster salad, which Merlin treated himself to a couple of days ago, for breakfast. Now his opinion has to be listened to, for his is of the Normburger fame don't forget. And he was right, delicious. Thirdly, one can sit outside in the sun and watch the world go by.
But what to do with the rest of the day? We need not have worried. A fun filled one was about to unfold culminating in Merlin returning the favour of many years past. We wandered about for a while before stopping for another bite to eat and as it was past alcohol o'clock.......well it would be rude not to. It's worth reminding readers at this point, as it is crucial to today's tale, that Merlin does not drink. This is on the grounds that between birth and 57 years old, he drank a lifetime's worth and destiny chose for him, another route. We continued upon our ambling way and came upon a fire station. Outside, resplendent in shiny chrome and red, stood a Boston fire engine. Merlin was transfixed. Better was to come, for as he whipped out his camera, a firefighter approached. Merlin made some random excuse about his brother being in the Swedish Fire Service and wanted to show bruv the real thing. Without even asking him to sign a petition, Merlin was offers up to the cab. Unattended. What death they would have been dicing with in days gone by. He was like a small boy. I fully expected him to ask to sound the siren, which in the US is a truly deafening piece of kit, sounding more like an Atlantic liner's signal that it is intending to arrive in port.
After some time our stroll continued and I decided, using GPS to try a short cut between blocks, affording Merlin another photo opportunity, this time of a typical American movie type alley. His word not mine. Turning into the adjoining street we noticed a very old looking building on our right. This turned out to be The Boston Black American Museum, where a guided tour and talk was a mere five dollars. This, we mused, would eat up a few more minutes, but it was more than that, it was an hour or more and fascinating it was too. Boston, not only the place where they chucked our te in the harbour, but also where the sparks of the American Civil War were kindled. Any one who has seen 12 Years A Slave will know exactly what I mean. It was here that right minded 'liberals' decided that the colour of a person's skin should not dictate how they were treated in life. The abolition movement started here, and in this very building and chapel, where the first meetings took place. Brilliant!
Later at Boston International Airport, Trish and I decided to celebrate this great last day. Consequently, from that moment onwards, things went a bit pear shaped. Now, my wife hates waste and could not be convinced to part with the remnants of our duty free, now ten days old and mostly consumed. But not all. Not by a long way it turned out. For when the call to Gate came another gait was decidedly unsteady. These days, airlines are a bit fussy about who they let on 'planes and those that can't walk in a straight line are somewhere on their list. Knowing this Merlin went into action. Ironic this. I remember many a similar experience, merely trying to gain entry, with him in tow, to various clubs and bars in Gothenburg. We sandwiched Trish between us and marched the three of us forward. Confidently we negotiated passport and boarding card control. Security was another matter. They pulled her over for a bag and body search. A feeling of foreboding passed through us. I need not have worried. She pulled herself together and up straight and met the challenge. I was proud of her. We were through.
This effort seemed to have taken its toll as we had to repeat the sandwich manoeuvre to get her through the gate to the aircraft where, after a prolonged visit to the ladies, she slept the whole way home. Lucky her.
What a trip this has been. New York was a truly memorable experience. I can honestly say I have never been to a place like it. Non stop noise, traffic, skyscrapers adding to a keen sense of claustrophobia, people, everywhere, teeming from the pores of the buildings themselves, rich, poor, black, white and every shade between, yellow cabs, fast food, dollars and few cents, the almost perfect silence of Central Park and the 35th floor of our hotel, Brooklyn Bridge, the fetid heat of the subway, Ground Zero, taking your breath away, where few people talk but all look up, Times Square, daylight at night, fire escapes clinging rusty to the outside of buildings, the avenues going on for miles and the streets intersecting them, the queue at night for The Doctor Who Convention, the Broadway lights, catering stores in Greenwich Village selling anything you could wish for and more besides, where Trish could not believe her eyes, ancient hand powered mincing machines and grinders stacked floor to ceiling, The Dakota Building with its security guards and shutters snapping, Strawberry Fields and a Liverpool scarf, you'll never walk alone John, Penn Station, Madison Square Gardens, The Staten Island Ferry, Statue Of Liberty, it's copper you know, that's why it's green, Stars and Stripes and the names of the innocent etched forever on the memorial, bordering the footmark of The South Tower. Truly moving. And all in two days. Unforgettable, whichever way you look at it. I'll be back.
But what to do with the rest of the day? We need not have worried. A fun filled one was about to unfold culminating in Merlin returning the favour of many years past. We wandered about for a while before stopping for another bite to eat and as it was past alcohol o'clock.......well it would be rude not to. It's worth reminding readers at this point, as it is crucial to today's tale, that Merlin does not drink. This is on the grounds that between birth and 57 years old, he drank a lifetime's worth and destiny chose for him, another route. We continued upon our ambling way and came upon a fire station. Outside, resplendent in shiny chrome and red, stood a Boston fire engine. Merlin was transfixed. Better was to come, for as he whipped out his camera, a firefighter approached. Merlin made some random excuse about his brother being in the Swedish Fire Service and wanted to show bruv the real thing. Without even asking him to sign a petition, Merlin was offers up to the cab. Unattended. What death they would have been dicing with in days gone by. He was like a small boy. I fully expected him to ask to sound the siren, which in the US is a truly deafening piece of kit, sounding more like an Atlantic liner's signal that it is intending to arrive in port.
After some time our stroll continued and I decided, using GPS to try a short cut between blocks, affording Merlin another photo opportunity, this time of a typical American movie type alley. His word not mine. Turning into the adjoining street we noticed a very old looking building on our right. This turned out to be The Boston Black American Museum, where a guided tour and talk was a mere five dollars. This, we mused, would eat up a few more minutes, but it was more than that, it was an hour or more and fascinating it was too. Boston, not only the place where they chucked our te in the harbour, but also where the sparks of the American Civil War were kindled. Any one who has seen 12 Years A Slave will know exactly what I mean. It was here that right minded 'liberals' decided that the colour of a person's skin should not dictate how they were treated in life. The abolition movement started here, and in this very building and chapel, where the first meetings took place. Brilliant!
Later at Boston International Airport, Trish and I decided to celebrate this great last day. Consequently, from that moment onwards, things went a bit pear shaped. Now, my wife hates waste and could not be convinced to part with the remnants of our duty free, now ten days old and mostly consumed. But not all. Not by a long way it turned out. For when the call to Gate came another gait was decidedly unsteady. These days, airlines are a bit fussy about who they let on 'planes and those that can't walk in a straight line are somewhere on their list. Knowing this Merlin went into action. Ironic this. I remember many a similar experience, merely trying to gain entry, with him in tow, to various clubs and bars in Gothenburg. We sandwiched Trish between us and marched the three of us forward. Confidently we negotiated passport and boarding card control. Security was another matter. They pulled her over for a bag and body search. A feeling of foreboding passed through us. I need not have worried. She pulled herself together and up straight and met the challenge. I was proud of her. We were through.
This effort seemed to have taken its toll as we had to repeat the sandwich manoeuvre to get her through the gate to the aircraft where, after a prolonged visit to the ladies, she slept the whole way home. Lucky her.
What a trip this has been. New York was a truly memorable experience. I can honestly say I have never been to a place like it. Non stop noise, traffic, skyscrapers adding to a keen sense of claustrophobia, people, everywhere, teeming from the pores of the buildings themselves, rich, poor, black, white and every shade between, yellow cabs, fast food, dollars and few cents, the almost perfect silence of Central Park and the 35th floor of our hotel, Brooklyn Bridge, the fetid heat of the subway, Ground Zero, taking your breath away, where few people talk but all look up, Times Square, daylight at night, fire escapes clinging rusty to the outside of buildings, the avenues going on for miles and the streets intersecting them, the queue at night for The Doctor Who Convention, the Broadway lights, catering stores in Greenwich Village selling anything you could wish for and more besides, where Trish could not believe her eyes, ancient hand powered mincing machines and grinders stacked floor to ceiling, The Dakota Building with its security guards and shutters snapping, Strawberry Fields and a Liverpool scarf, you'll never walk alone John, Penn Station, Madison Square Gardens, The Staten Island Ferry, Statue Of Liberty, it's copper you know, that's why it's green, Stars and Stripes and the names of the innocent etched forever on the memorial, bordering the footmark of The South Tower. Truly moving. And all in two days. Unforgettable, whichever way you look at it. I'll be back.
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
SUNDAY AUGUST 17th BOSTON.........BLANKETY BLANK!
The day of the Ball Game as they say here in the US. Merlin had been looking forward to this and I didn't want to dash his hopes but I have already experienced baseball in Cleveland on a previous visit and I know that it's less than exciting. We have to pause here and return to my new friend Rich from Boston, who I met in Washington. Now Rich didn't seem like the sports type of guy, more the sort that enjoyed the corporate entertainment that went with it, but nevertheless a fun and interesting character. He had experienced cricket in England and his opinion was that during the game, in Gloucestershire somewhere, he would have been grateful for a bullet through the head during the proceedings. I didn't seek his opinion about the game of baseball as I didn't need to, having been there myself in a previous life. And I kind of knew what he would say. But Merlin was determined and I didn't want to disappoint him. But Rich would have been looking for a revolver.
With Trish all Cheered out, I ordered tickets, the cheapest I could find, for The Game. Now for those of you who have never experienced baseball, here is a brief synopsis. The idea is to get as many runs as you can in nine inning. A run is a fat unfit geezer running through last base. Hey, does this not sound like rounders? Yes it does! And that's what it is, except it's more complicated at The Plate. It seems, that a hitter has three strikes before he is struck out for not hitting the ball. However, there are a number of foul throws allowed before a batter can Walk. Problem is here is that the bleacher crowd, us, sitting high in The Gods on a cheap ticket, have no idea what is a good ball or bad until it flashes up on the giant scoreboard. Even when watching it on TV, you don't really have much of a discriminatory idea about the various pitches. I assumed that during our game, from the number of balls, rather that strikes that were delivered, that Kelly, the Red Sox Pitcher, was in need of an urgent visit to Specsavers. But you could not be sure. Some balls, looking perfectly good to me were called bad whilst balls exactly the same were called good. The long and the short of this is that each inning, takes a long time to complete and is completely mystifying. Cricket is streamlined by comparison.
So there we sat, in the bleachers, the cheap seats, high up, uncovered, at the mercy of the midday and afternoon sun. And it was hot. Sporadically, a blue fug would make its way across the ground and the smell was exactly like your neighbour's shite attempt at a barbecue. It hung there like the smog in downtown LA of the seventies.
At first Merlin was well into the proceedings, but he made the Big Mistake of waiting for something to happen. Which it never really did. The game preceded along its sedentary path, and the crowd, made up of families enjoying a day out, were more concerned with their next soda or piece of pizza than the unfolding game. A Mexican wave was attempted, the highlight of the afternoon it could be said, but wasn't maintained. Some sporadic chanting occurred but wasn't of Wembley proportions. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Merlin beginning to wilt. He began mopping his brow, trying not only to make sense of the Ball Game, but also keep cool up there under the sun.
A pathetic third inning saw Red Sox go 5-0 down. Then there was a controversial play in the fourth which again was not communicated to the crowd or explained via the scoreboard. We had to wait until we got home and watch the highlights to find out what had happened. By this time Merlin was resembling an ice lolly too long out of the freezer in the midday sun. I made a mental to take him to a 20/20 game next summer to prove once and for all the superiority of cricket over the sedentary baseball. It's true folks. The taxi driver that took us to the ground was right. When I informed him that Trish wasn't going to The Game and needed dropping off at the hotel, he responded with 'lucky her'. I should have known. Hang on, I did know, what a friend I am! Or an idiot. At least Merlin leaned a new colloquialism, it has to do with paint and drying. Ask him.
With Trish all Cheered out, I ordered tickets, the cheapest I could find, for The Game. Now for those of you who have never experienced baseball, here is a brief synopsis. The idea is to get as many runs as you can in nine inning. A run is a fat unfit geezer running through last base. Hey, does this not sound like rounders? Yes it does! And that's what it is, except it's more complicated at The Plate. It seems, that a hitter has three strikes before he is struck out for not hitting the ball. However, there are a number of foul throws allowed before a batter can Walk. Problem is here is that the bleacher crowd, us, sitting high in The Gods on a cheap ticket, have no idea what is a good ball or bad until it flashes up on the giant scoreboard. Even when watching it on TV, you don't really have much of a discriminatory idea about the various pitches. I assumed that during our game, from the number of balls, rather that strikes that were delivered, that Kelly, the Red Sox Pitcher, was in need of an urgent visit to Specsavers. But you could not be sure. Some balls, looking perfectly good to me were called bad whilst balls exactly the same were called good. The long and the short of this is that each inning, takes a long time to complete and is completely mystifying. Cricket is streamlined by comparison.
So there we sat, in the bleachers, the cheap seats, high up, uncovered, at the mercy of the midday and afternoon sun. And it was hot. Sporadically, a blue fug would make its way across the ground and the smell was exactly like your neighbour's shite attempt at a barbecue. It hung there like the smog in downtown LA of the seventies.
At first Merlin was well into the proceedings, but he made the Big Mistake of waiting for something to happen. Which it never really did. The game preceded along its sedentary path, and the crowd, made up of families enjoying a day out, were more concerned with their next soda or piece of pizza than the unfolding game. A Mexican wave was attempted, the highlight of the afternoon it could be said, but wasn't maintained. Some sporadic chanting occurred but wasn't of Wembley proportions. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Merlin beginning to wilt. He began mopping his brow, trying not only to make sense of the Ball Game, but also keep cool up there under the sun.
A pathetic third inning saw Red Sox go 5-0 down. Then there was a controversial play in the fourth which again was not communicated to the crowd or explained via the scoreboard. We had to wait until we got home and watch the highlights to find out what had happened. By this time Merlin was resembling an ice lolly too long out of the freezer in the midday sun. I made a mental to take him to a 20/20 game next summer to prove once and for all the superiority of cricket over the sedentary baseball. It's true folks. The taxi driver that took us to the ground was right. When I informed him that Trish wasn't going to The Game and needed dropping off at the hotel, he responded with 'lucky her'. I should have known. Hang on, I did know, what a friend I am! Or an idiot. At least Merlin leaned a new colloquialism, it has to do with paint and drying. Ask him.
Monday, 18 August 2014
SATURDAY AUGUST 16th BOSTON.........BULLSEYE!
After NYC it was Boston. Our next port of call. Boston, with its leafy wide avenues and beautiful architecture and, more importantly, a reputation for loving the Brits. Remarkable considering their attitude towards us on December 16th 1773. Perhaps it's guilt. It was all quite a shock, and a pleasant one after the madness that is New York, and a contrast and just about any nice word you can think of. It's also the home of my wife's first favourite soap......Cheers. For at least a year I had been planning this part of the trip. I had even interrogated a bloke from Boston who was staying at our hotel in Washington about my forthcoming plan to 'make' Trish's trip by visiting Cheers. Merlin and I also wanted to spend one of the afternoons watching Boston Red Sox, something I knew Trish would not want to do, so it was VITAL I got the Cheers part of the trip right. Imagine my delight then when Rich, my new friend who loved shopping and worked in the entertainment business and had a lot of champagne friendly meetings to go to, informed me that there were TWO Cheers bars in Boston. The original, and a replica. Ching, ching, one hundred and eighty! (Rich also informed me that he could easily get tickets for cricket matches in London and Lords next year (Ashes test)would be no problem. How many maximum scores can you get in one day?
We had a full schedule as you can imagine in this city of colonial history but Cheers held importance that cannot be overstated. So, on our first day in the city, ahead of out 'Duck Tour' we made our way to Cheers....The Replica. Unlike The Pirates Of The Caribbean experience in St. Vincent, a hurricane destroyed film set and a lonely nutter valiantly running The Jack Sparrow Bar where we were greeted with 'don't worry I ain't got no licence and nothing to sell man' , Boston has gone overboard to accommodate sad Cheers geeks. It was mobbed. And it was pretty much what I had expected, except there was no road entry via steps leading down to the bar, with a door opening into the bar as in the TV series. This was to come later. This Replica Bar was stuck in the middle of Boston Market. Dining was on a scale Sam Malone could only have dreamed of. Norm's seat was taken, so we sat at the other end often frequented by Frasier and Lillith. But the Normburger was alive and kicking. And Merlin ordered it.
Even on the Cheers Menu it looked graphically awesome, a mega favourite word here in the US, but in reality it needed full mountain climbing gear to scale it's heights and eat. It was truly awesome. Even a bloke on an adjacent table laughed when it arrived. I managed, luckily to to capture this moment on digital. (See Facebook for photo). Out of the corner of my eye, as Merlin negotiated the extremities of the monster, I could see diners checking for 911 on autodial on their mobiles. To add to the drama, a nine inch kitchen knife protruded from the top of the mound, effectively stapling the dining drama to the plate. The whole thing reminded me of photos of the Leaning Tower Of Pizza where for original fun effect, tourists pretend, using awesome camera trickery, to be holding up the precarious pile. Know what I mean? This effect was certainly possible here. Merlin devoured it in seconds. I even had to point out that the knife was not part of the dinner as he wiped his chops on the Cheers napkin, examples of which Trish was moving bag wise.
A couple of Normbeers later and I was merrily caught up in the whole event, taking daft photos with the rest of them, visiting the Cheers souvenir shop and buying an oh too expensive t - shirt for my beloved. Meanwhile on the TV above our heads they were running an ad for tomorrow's Ball Game at Fenway Park, Home of The Red Sox, reigning NBA Champions. Sox v Houston Astros. 'Don't miss it' they said. 'We won't' I thought affording myself a sly Malonegrin.
We had a full schedule as you can imagine in this city of colonial history but Cheers held importance that cannot be overstated. So, on our first day in the city, ahead of out 'Duck Tour' we made our way to Cheers....The Replica. Unlike The Pirates Of The Caribbean experience in St. Vincent, a hurricane destroyed film set and a lonely nutter valiantly running The Jack Sparrow Bar where we were greeted with 'don't worry I ain't got no licence and nothing to sell man' , Boston has gone overboard to accommodate sad Cheers geeks. It was mobbed. And it was pretty much what I had expected, except there was no road entry via steps leading down to the bar, with a door opening into the bar as in the TV series. This was to come later. This Replica Bar was stuck in the middle of Boston Market. Dining was on a scale Sam Malone could only have dreamed of. Norm's seat was taken, so we sat at the other end often frequented by Frasier and Lillith. But the Normburger was alive and kicking. And Merlin ordered it.
Even on the Cheers Menu it looked graphically awesome, a mega favourite word here in the US, but in reality it needed full mountain climbing gear to scale it's heights and eat. It was truly awesome. Even a bloke on an adjacent table laughed when it arrived. I managed, luckily to to capture this moment on digital. (See Facebook for photo). Out of the corner of my eye, as Merlin negotiated the extremities of the monster, I could see diners checking for 911 on autodial on their mobiles. To add to the drama, a nine inch kitchen knife protruded from the top of the mound, effectively stapling the dining drama to the plate. The whole thing reminded me of photos of the Leaning Tower Of Pizza where for original fun effect, tourists pretend, using awesome camera trickery, to be holding up the precarious pile. Know what I mean? This effect was certainly possible here. Merlin devoured it in seconds. I even had to point out that the knife was not part of the dinner as he wiped his chops on the Cheers napkin, examples of which Trish was moving bag wise.
A couple of Normbeers later and I was merrily caught up in the whole event, taking daft photos with the rest of them, visiting the Cheers souvenir shop and buying an oh too expensive t - shirt for my beloved. Meanwhile on the TV above our heads they were running an ad for tomorrow's Ball Game at Fenway Park, Home of The Red Sox, reigning NBA Champions. Sox v Houston Astros. 'Don't miss it' they said. 'We won't' I thought affording myself a sly Malonegrin.
FRIDAY AUGUST 15th BOSTON.........TAKE YOUR PICK
Our next port of call was four hours up the coast by Amtrak from NYC. The journey was eventful as it turned out. Many Americans we have talked to seem to regard Amtrak as some kind of unnecessary evil, reserved only for people who have either a fear of flying or are poor. The rugby type scrum which we were by necessity involved in at Penn station, would indicate otherwise. Our silver bullet was sold out.
However, train travel is still a public service and the yanks are good at it. For example, the train had not one, not two or three conductors but four. And they were courteous and informative, making clear announcements regarding the next stop and advice for making sure customers got off the train safely. As I write this I want you to think about the UK rail system as each facet is mentioned. So staffing is great, matched only by the UK when the Olympics were on. At that time, as we made our way to The Olympic Stadium from our home village, I had never seen so many helpful train line officials, guiding the way through London and to The Games. I had to pinch myself to ensure I wasn't dreaming. In the US, this seems to be the norm.
Then there are the trains themselves. The cars are clean, seats comfortable and spacious, the toilets have running water and paper towels and soap for hand washing and the dining car has a great selection of CHEAP food and drink served by a cheerful bloke behind the counter. And, here is the best thing, Morons are not tolerated. I know this because there was a commotion in the car behind ours. I looked up from my blogging, to see Trish straining to see out of the window. Something was going on. Anxious not to miss anything and in a 'I'm lining up for the toilet' nonchalant kind of way, I made my way to the adjoining car where the door opened up to the platform where a drama was taking place. Someone, a backward baseball cap wearing youth and his luggage had been ejected from the train. He was surrounded by two of the conductors, a burly looking individual who turned out to be a plan clothed train security bloke and, within five minutes, two unamused and armed coppers.
It turned out that he was either pissed or stoned and had had an altercation with a woman passenger. About what I never found out. The conductor, under interrogation from myself, revealed that he had received a complaint from the lady and told the youth to calm down, sit down and chill out. He had responded by threatening the woman upon arrival in Boston, because she had complained about him. Naturally she had complained again. By now, my new mate the conductor had had enough. Apparently in the Old Days they had license to stop the train wherever it was at the time, and chuck anyone who was pissing them off, from the train. He said it has got a bit PC since then and they have to wait for a station. I could tell from his voice he was hankering for the return of those old days.
By this time the youth had gone into naughty schoolboy mode, telling the Old Bill 'I didn't do anything man, I didn't say anything to her'. The police merely responded by telling him it was his word against quite a few people including the conductors, whose chief goal is to get their charge to Boston on time and not delay it, having it stand in some out in the sticks station while they sort out some fool's avoidable stupidity. As the train pulled out of the station the West Kingstown Police were still telling him that. Me, I was still chatting to my new mate and mentally still thinking about British Rail or whatever it is called these days. What would Amtrak do with football hooligans I wondered? I'd pay to see it.
However, train travel is still a public service and the yanks are good at it. For example, the train had not one, not two or three conductors but four. And they were courteous and informative, making clear announcements regarding the next stop and advice for making sure customers got off the train safely. As I write this I want you to think about the UK rail system as each facet is mentioned. So staffing is great, matched only by the UK when the Olympics were on. At that time, as we made our way to The Olympic Stadium from our home village, I had never seen so many helpful train line officials, guiding the way through London and to The Games. I had to pinch myself to ensure I wasn't dreaming. In the US, this seems to be the norm.
Then there are the trains themselves. The cars are clean, seats comfortable and spacious, the toilets have running water and paper towels and soap for hand washing and the dining car has a great selection of CHEAP food and drink served by a cheerful bloke behind the counter. And, here is the best thing, Morons are not tolerated. I know this because there was a commotion in the car behind ours. I looked up from my blogging, to see Trish straining to see out of the window. Something was going on. Anxious not to miss anything and in a 'I'm lining up for the toilet' nonchalant kind of way, I made my way to the adjoining car where the door opened up to the platform where a drama was taking place. Someone, a backward baseball cap wearing youth and his luggage had been ejected from the train. He was surrounded by two of the conductors, a burly looking individual who turned out to be a plan clothed train security bloke and, within five minutes, two unamused and armed coppers.
It turned out that he was either pissed or stoned and had had an altercation with a woman passenger. About what I never found out. The conductor, under interrogation from myself, revealed that he had received a complaint from the lady and told the youth to calm down, sit down and chill out. He had responded by threatening the woman upon arrival in Boston, because she had complained about him. Naturally she had complained again. By now, my new mate the conductor had had enough. Apparently in the Old Days they had license to stop the train wherever it was at the time, and chuck anyone who was pissing them off, from the train. He said it has got a bit PC since then and they have to wait for a station. I could tell from his voice he was hankering for the return of those old days.
By this time the youth had gone into naughty schoolboy mode, telling the Old Bill 'I didn't do anything man, I didn't say anything to her'. The police merely responded by telling him it was his word against quite a few people including the conductors, whose chief goal is to get their charge to Boston on time and not delay it, having it stand in some out in the sticks station while they sort out some fool's avoidable stupidity. As the train pulled out of the station the West Kingstown Police were still telling him that. Me, I was still chatting to my new mate and mentally still thinking about British Rail or whatever it is called these days. What would Amtrak do with football hooligans I wondered? I'd pay to see it.
Sunday, 17 August 2014
THURSDAY 14th AUGUST: DOUBLE YOUR MONEY
Now all of you reading this Blog should know that I am an even tempered, friendly, and likeable sort of guy. But some things do get me annoyed. One of these occasional things happened today. Or should I say last night. Following our trip to Brooklyn, we managed to get back to mid town Manhattan where our hotel....The Warwick, probably the grandest hotel I have ever stayed in is situated............ William Randolph Hearst built the Warwick New York Hotel in 1926 for $5 million. Long catering to the elite, Hearst built the 36-story residential tower to accommodate his Hollywood friends as well as his mistress, the actress Marion Davies, who had her own specially-designed floor in the building. The hotel's restaurant, Murals on 54, features the 1937 murals of American illustrator Dean Cornwell. The famed murals were fully restored following a 2004 renovation of the restaurant. The Warwick is also home to Randolph’s Bar & Lounge, whose rosebud leitmotif references Hearst’s purported nickname for Marion Davies...............Not bad for a trio of travelling chumps eh?
Anyway, as usual we decided that after a bit of chill out in the silence of our respective rooms, we would venture out into the melee that is Manhattan. They say that New York is the city that never sleeps. I don't know about that because I have never been awake in the small hours to check this out but Trish and I, unable to sleep for some reason, have taken to early morning walks. Even at 6.30 am life is all around and the mega hustle and bustle of the day has left the starting blocks. The early evening, twelve hours later is nothing less than mental. Traffic is all one way, depending what avenue you are on. It would be a good idea to extend this to humans as well. If I was managing a football or rugby team, there would be no better place to bring The Lads for body swerve training than the streets of mid town Manhattan. Somehow, with the dexterity that is usually reserved for ski slopes at high season, the ants somehow avoid collision. Life is all around, busy, rushing commuters, tourists ambling, joggers and nutters. Plenty of them.
Anyway, I am returning to the topic of tipping for my latest annoying event. We visited one of NYC many Asian restaurants. This one was less that salubrious from the outside. Merlin reckons that the tell tale sign of a cheapie is colour pictures of the food you are going to eat posted on the windows. But, cheap does not always mean bad food. And this establishment was no different. The food was really good, but the service was less so. It was the sort of service which would make you reluctant to leave any kind of reward, never mind the minimum ten percent expected here. I had decided that was what I was going to do. Until the 'check' arrived. Firstly, it was probably easier to decipher the Rosetta Stone than this small slip of paper. Our food order was written in some kind of script that would make your local GP jealous. And, to make maters worse, service charge, or gratuity or tip had already been added, at a whopping and undeserved 18%. My companions could see my hackles rising and started to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Trish gave me one of her 'let it be' looks and Merlin his impression of a First World War General, right behind his troops.........two miles behind. I was on my own. I made the first advance, sticking my head over the parapet as it were. My questions regarding the content of the check were batted right back. It was then that I realised the waiter's peculiarities of speech matched perfectly the text on the bill. I also realised that there was little to be gained by pursuing the matter of the excessive tip. So I stole their pen.
Friday, 15 August 2014
WEDNESDAY 13th. DAY 6......POINTLESS
Two days in New York and what to do? There is so much. The city, dived up into its usually straight avenues and streets going either Uptown or Downtown and East to West, make it virtually impossible to get lost, unlike one of the other great NYC institutions.....The Subway.
Now let's be serious for a moment, in 1969, this Nation placed not one but two men on the moon. So how come, 45 years later they have still failed to redesign, in any way, their Subway system? The Tube in London looks as if it has been designed by a super being by comparison. I'll start with the basics...mapping. The good old underground map as designed by " Harry Beck in 1931, stands head and shoulders above any other in the world by all accounts, except those who have merely mirrored its simplicity. Only a fool would try to follow the NYC subway map and understand its logic. And fools we were.
In our defence the only map we had, I had ripped from a hotel information brochure the night before. This showed not only the stations, but street names, places of interest and districts. In tiny print. It was incomprehensible. Not to worry I thought, there will be maps ON the subways to help us out. No. Not even in the cars. Until later when we happened, after a detour to Brooklyn, upon a new 'state of the art' car. Not only did they have announcements between every stop but also ...wait for it....an individual line map IN the car so you could see what stops are coming up. Upon reading The Metro the next day, it turned out that this was a 'new innovation', one for which the New Yorkies were proudly slapping themselves on the Beck, sorry, back.
However, I digress away from my rookie error story which takes place during the aforementioned Brooklyn detour. To set the scene.......The NY subway is one hell of a place, almost literally. The carriages or 'cars' are air conditioned, but the rest of it is not. As you descend from the poorly marked street level stations down narrow, tiled dimly lit steps, you are buffeted by a blast of hot air. It's as if you have opened the door of your local sauna and stepped inside. At least then you would be naked. Yesterday we were wearing rain gear against the storms that were rocking the city. And the temperature rises as we descended to a hellish place of utter claustrophobia. And it's dark., gloomy, grimy and old. My friend JD would be running for the hills immediately.he gets a panic on in a small lift in Göteborg. Sweat started to drip from every pore of my forehead and I could feel it running down the middle of my back underneath my t-shirt for good measure.. As usual Trish looked as if she had just walked out of an air conditioned room but Merlin was sharing my experience but redder in the face.
Our goal was The New Jersey Ferry and according to The Map, it looked straightforward, take the green line Downtown. Trouble was that when the train arrived there was no sign on the front what line it was on or where it was going. We just got on. Big mistake. We ended up having to change not only trains but lines within a station as well. At this point in our journey I would have challenged Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, 3rd Baronet, OBE, commonly known as Ranulph Fiennes, English adventurer and holder of several endurance records to find his way. We wandered around following illogical signs until a disdainful station official had to TAKE us to the right platform, like lost children on a school trip.
Coming back was even worse. We wanted to visit Greenwich Village and managed to get there alright. A direct line. But then we needed to get Uptown. Merlin was in favour of asking people. The question was easy. 'Which is the next train that will take us take us Uptown?' Easy eh? Standby for rookie mistake. When asking people it is vital to select someone who looks as if they might know but here in this melting pot of locals, tourists, non English speakers and nutters, they might look as if they know but......
It has to be said here that Merlin, full of advice, wasn't keen to do the asking, falling back on his lack of ability in English. That has never stopped him before over the 45 years we have known each other, in the bars and clubs of various countries. Maybe it was the type of question he had to ask, as he always seemed to be comfortable in other kinds of matters and with their preceding questions. Often with some considerable success.
First victim was a Chinese guy. He didn't even speak English. I then saw a likely target, a young teenage lad standing on his own gazing at his cell phone. I approached and asked the simple question, 'which train goes Uptown'? He was thus presented with a choice of two tracks. He turned and spoke. As he did so I immediately knew, through years of teaching experience, that the vacant look in his eyes represented a brain otherwise engaged, and not on the subject in hand. Pointing to the nearest track he mumbled (another two clues there) 'that one, change at Union'. At that point I should have known better but I was hot, hot,hot and sweaty too and the train, with its air conditioned cars calling me, clattered into the station at that very moment. I was sold. We all jumped on.
Brooklyn is like Deptford in London. Our Charlotte used to live there. However that's where the supposedly Uptown train deposited us. Not even Downtown but Across town, across The Hudson, over a bridge and East. Unlike Deptford, Brooklyn is beginning to get a better rep for itself as has another area of NYC, Harlem. But it looked as if it was going to be a slow process as we clambered down the rusty staircase, across the potholed road below the rusty iron track supports, where I envisaged many a car chase or drug deal had gone down and up the equally rickety and rusty staircase to the return platform. So much for Mr. Vacant.
It was then we all accepted that we were involved in a game of Russian Roulette subway style. We submissively got on the next train back and waited to see where it would take us, like lemmings to the slaughter. If the logic was that a train from the opposite platform of two would go back the way we came, we should be alright. But logic does not apply to the New York Metro. Not in any shape or form. We were finding that out the hard way.
Now let's be serious for a moment, in 1969, this Nation placed not one but two men on the moon. So how come, 45 years later they have still failed to redesign, in any way, their Subway system? The Tube in London looks as if it has been designed by a super being by comparison. I'll start with the basics...mapping. The good old underground map as designed by " Harry Beck in 1931, stands head and shoulders above any other in the world by all accounts, except those who have merely mirrored its simplicity. Only a fool would try to follow the NYC subway map and understand its logic. And fools we were.
In our defence the only map we had, I had ripped from a hotel information brochure the night before. This showed not only the stations, but street names, places of interest and districts. In tiny print. It was incomprehensible. Not to worry I thought, there will be maps ON the subways to help us out. No. Not even in the cars. Until later when we happened, after a detour to Brooklyn, upon a new 'state of the art' car. Not only did they have announcements between every stop but also ...wait for it....an individual line map IN the car so you could see what stops are coming up. Upon reading The Metro the next day, it turned out that this was a 'new innovation', one for which the New Yorkies were proudly slapping themselves on the Beck, sorry, back.
However, I digress away from my rookie error story which takes place during the aforementioned Brooklyn detour. To set the scene.......The NY subway is one hell of a place, almost literally. The carriages or 'cars' are air conditioned, but the rest of it is not. As you descend from the poorly marked street level stations down narrow, tiled dimly lit steps, you are buffeted by a blast of hot air. It's as if you have opened the door of your local sauna and stepped inside. At least then you would be naked. Yesterday we were wearing rain gear against the storms that were rocking the city. And the temperature rises as we descended to a hellish place of utter claustrophobia. And it's dark., gloomy, grimy and old. My friend JD would be running for the hills immediately.he gets a panic on in a small lift in Göteborg. Sweat started to drip from every pore of my forehead and I could feel it running down the middle of my back underneath my t-shirt for good measure.. As usual Trish looked as if she had just walked out of an air conditioned room but Merlin was sharing my experience but redder in the face.
Our goal was The New Jersey Ferry and according to The Map, it looked straightforward, take the green line Downtown. Trouble was that when the train arrived there was no sign on the front what line it was on or where it was going. We just got on. Big mistake. We ended up having to change not only trains but lines within a station as well. At this point in our journey I would have challenged Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, 3rd Baronet, OBE, commonly known as Ranulph Fiennes, English adventurer and holder of several endurance records to find his way. We wandered around following illogical signs until a disdainful station official had to TAKE us to the right platform, like lost children on a school trip.
Coming back was even worse. We wanted to visit Greenwich Village and managed to get there alright. A direct line. But then we needed to get Uptown. Merlin was in favour of asking people. The question was easy. 'Which is the next train that will take us take us Uptown?' Easy eh? Standby for rookie mistake. When asking people it is vital to select someone who looks as if they might know but here in this melting pot of locals, tourists, non English speakers and nutters, they might look as if they know but......
It has to be said here that Merlin, full of advice, wasn't keen to do the asking, falling back on his lack of ability in English. That has never stopped him before over the 45 years we have known each other, in the bars and clubs of various countries. Maybe it was the type of question he had to ask, as he always seemed to be comfortable in other kinds of matters and with their preceding questions. Often with some considerable success.
First victim was a Chinese guy. He didn't even speak English. I then saw a likely target, a young teenage lad standing on his own gazing at his cell phone. I approached and asked the simple question, 'which train goes Uptown'? He was thus presented with a choice of two tracks. He turned and spoke. As he did so I immediately knew, through years of teaching experience, that the vacant look in his eyes represented a brain otherwise engaged, and not on the subject in hand. Pointing to the nearest track he mumbled (another two clues there) 'that one, change at Union'. At that point I should have known better but I was hot, hot,hot and sweaty too and the train, with its air conditioned cars calling me, clattered into the station at that very moment. I was sold. We all jumped on.
Brooklyn is like Deptford in London. Our Charlotte used to live there. However that's where the supposedly Uptown train deposited us. Not even Downtown but Across town, across The Hudson, over a bridge and East. Unlike Deptford, Brooklyn is beginning to get a better rep for itself as has another area of NYC, Harlem. But it looked as if it was going to be a slow process as we clambered down the rusty staircase, across the potholed road below the rusty iron track supports, where I envisaged many a car chase or drug deal had gone down and up the equally rickety and rusty staircase to the return platform. So much for Mr. Vacant.
It was then we all accepted that we were involved in a game of Russian Roulette subway style. We submissively got on the next train back and waited to see where it would take us, like lemmings to the slaughter. If the logic was that a train from the opposite platform of two would go back the way we came, we should be alright. But logic does not apply to the New York Metro. Not in any shape or form. We were finding that out the hard way.
MONDAY 11th. DAY 4 WASHINGTON D.C........TIPPING POINT.
Day 2 in Washington and we are now totally immersed in the culture of the USA. Only right and proper, for what are holidays for if not to experience the slings and arrows of outrageous foreign fortune? For those who have never been here, one thing you need to get perfectly sorted before you leave Blighty or wherever it is you reside, is 'tipping etiquette'. Get this wrong and as you depart taxi cab or restaurant, you can feel the cold hard steel of a stiletto stare between your shoulder blades.
Luckily I have been to the US before and dutifully, before we left, printed out the Trip Advisor Guide To Tipping. It's a six page document! Lurking within those pages are pitfalls galore for the unwary. The main problem is how much to tip. Different degrees of servitude require different degrees of tip. And this is where it gets tricky. As I mentioned, Trip Advisor are a help but clues to the extent of their usefulness are in not only their name but the word 'Guide'. The Final Decision is yours.
Of course this all impacts on the service you get from those that serve. Unlike the UK when on occasion you are treated like dog turd on the bottom of a shoe, as soon as you enter a bar or restaurant your 'host' or 'server' is on you like a rash. And it doesn't matter how many times you thank them, they will always respond with 'you're welcome'. It leaves you with the feeling that they actually not only want to be your bestest friend, but would also like to take you home with them, introduce you to their parents and leave you a consideration in their will. But get it wrong and your name is on The Blacklist, ever so slightly embarrassing if the restaurant happens to be part of the hotel in which you are staying and where you eat breakfast and occasionally prop up the bar. Like us.
One day we forgot to leave the DAILY tip for the maid. Trip Advisor was useful here. Don't wait for the end of your stay to leave a tip, it's a daily event because your maid might change daily. As we cautiously opened our room door that evening and pulled down the bed linen, I had an uncomfortable feeling that a horse head or worse, as left by Merlin's cat when he went away too often over a short period, would greet me. I needn't have worried all was well, but I left double the next day.
And then there was the cheery fellow who poured us our free Happy Hour wine and served our canopies on a nightly basis. He always made sure our glasses were full. He helped us with our bags. He was a good chap. He was on minimum wage. And I forgot to tip him before we left. What retribution might follow? As we made our way home tonight storm clouds were gathering above us in the humid skies, the weather forecasters predicted a storm which would be proceeding slowly up the East Coast tomorrow. As we are going in the same direction in the morning, I fear the worst. And it's all my fault.
TUESDAY 12th. DAY 5 ........THE CHASE
Today the heavens opened, and the taxi we were travelling in to Union Station narrowly avoided an accident when an oncoming car turned across in front. The Curse Of The Missed Tip was well and truly upon us. Then there was a traffic jam of cars for the station itself and we were unable to make a dash for it due to the torrents around us. I swear that some of the rain was hitting the ground and bouncing up. After two days of glorious weather during which we well and truly explored Washington's wide avenues with their enforced low rise offices, museums and apartments, we had started to get a familiarity with the place. We could walk to the White House without asking the way, we could catch a Trolley from our nearest stop and we knew how to get there too. We knew where the good eating places were and most importantly, we knew how to be back at our hotel perfectly in time for Happy Hour, and that from most parts of the city.
But depart we had to and under slate grey skies and pouring rain we boarded the 11.02 to New York City.
Luckily I have been to the US before and dutifully, before we left, printed out the Trip Advisor Guide To Tipping. It's a six page document! Lurking within those pages are pitfalls galore for the unwary. The main problem is how much to tip. Different degrees of servitude require different degrees of tip. And this is where it gets tricky. As I mentioned, Trip Advisor are a help but clues to the extent of their usefulness are in not only their name but the word 'Guide'. The Final Decision is yours.
Of course this all impacts on the service you get from those that serve. Unlike the UK when on occasion you are treated like dog turd on the bottom of a shoe, as soon as you enter a bar or restaurant your 'host' or 'server' is on you like a rash. And it doesn't matter how many times you thank them, they will always respond with 'you're welcome'. It leaves you with the feeling that they actually not only want to be your bestest friend, but would also like to take you home with them, introduce you to their parents and leave you a consideration in their will. But get it wrong and your name is on The Blacklist, ever so slightly embarrassing if the restaurant happens to be part of the hotel in which you are staying and where you eat breakfast and occasionally prop up the bar. Like us.
One day we forgot to leave the DAILY tip for the maid. Trip Advisor was useful here. Don't wait for the end of your stay to leave a tip, it's a daily event because your maid might change daily. As we cautiously opened our room door that evening and pulled down the bed linen, I had an uncomfortable feeling that a horse head or worse, as left by Merlin's cat when he went away too often over a short period, would greet me. I needn't have worried all was well, but I left double the next day.
And then there was the cheery fellow who poured us our free Happy Hour wine and served our canopies on a nightly basis. He always made sure our glasses were full. He helped us with our bags. He was a good chap. He was on minimum wage. And I forgot to tip him before we left. What retribution might follow? As we made our way home tonight storm clouds were gathering above us in the humid skies, the weather forecasters predicted a storm which would be proceeding slowly up the East Coast tomorrow. As we are going in the same direction in the morning, I fear the worst. And it's all my fault.
TUESDAY 12th. DAY 5 ........THE CHASE
Today the heavens opened, and the taxi we were travelling in to Union Station narrowly avoided an accident when an oncoming car turned across in front. The Curse Of The Missed Tip was well and truly upon us. Then there was a traffic jam of cars for the station itself and we were unable to make a dash for it due to the torrents around us. I swear that some of the rain was hitting the ground and bouncing up. After two days of glorious weather during which we well and truly explored Washington's wide avenues with their enforced low rise offices, museums and apartments, we had started to get a familiarity with the place. We could walk to the White House without asking the way, we could catch a Trolley from our nearest stop and we knew how to get there too. We knew where the good eating places were and most importantly, we knew how to be back at our hotel perfectly in time for Happy Hour, and that from most parts of the city.
But depart we had to and under slate grey skies and pouring rain we boarded the 11.02 to New York City.
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
SUNDAY 10th DAY 3 WASHINGTON D.C. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
Today was a tourist day. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and join the masses if you want to see the sights and sounds of whatever place you are visiting. And Washington is a big place with all the historic stuff well spread out. We started by agreeing to purchase two days worth of 'hop on hop off' tickets for The Washington Trolley. This quaint vehicle serves all the tourist areas and with the driver providing live commentary is not only informative but entertaining. We started by taking The Green Line which takes you to the North if the capital, or should I say Capitol. The highlight of the route, over an hour and a half in length, was the area of the city called Georgetown . This is one of the original settlements named after the King of England at the time of founding, George II. Many Presidents had sumner houses up here and needless to say property is exceptionally beautiful and exceptionally expensive. But they ain't so bright up there folks and they ran the gauntlet of annoying my wife by denying her alcohol at well past alcohol o'clock.
Feeling in need of refreshment we happened upon a 'bar and grill'. We, as veggies are not necessarily interested in the 'grill' element of this but hold on reader, we have Merlin with us, who loves the idea of total immersion in American 'culture' which includes experiencing their heart attack jobs, namely burgers with at least six inches between the top and bottom of the burger bun once filling is applied. And that was what he got! But what we got, Trish and me, was a shock! As it was well after the aforementioned alcohol o'clock, Trish decided that a Bloody Mary was the order of the day. Our waitress, as accommodating as ever in this tipping paradise, took our order but then asked Trish for ID. Now, avid readers, this was a hot day 30+. We were pretty frazzled and in need of refreshment. This waitress was walking a suddenly taut tightrope. Did we have ID? No. Was Trish getting her Bloody Mary? No. Was my wife upset? Astonishingly at first No. Unlike her husband who pleaded her case, siting a daughter of 26 and an age of 47, she dutifully ordered a coke without rum or any other alcoholic enhancement. What a Woman! Secretly, I think she was revelling in the fact that she didn't look old enough to drink, here in the U.S of A. You know how women are. Me, a man would be just pissed off. But, I don't think that's ever likely to happen. Not now and not ever.
There followed a tour of the local shops during which Merlin picked up a copy of 'The Marijuana Cookbook, supposedly for son Ossie but.......... And then we were back on the 'Trolley' with 'Slim Dave' or whoever he was for the rest of the ride down to THE CAPITOL.
Of course the next stop was a visit to The White House. Although 'visit' is a loose term. There is obviously no chance of a visit and there is also almost no chance of a decent view, for it is now surrounded by trees and secret service police. The face of the building must now be viewed from afar, with ancient access points now terminated by cops on very fast and chrome heavy Harley- Davidson Motorbikes. Every now and then one of them would go roaring off into the distance in a show of subliminal power, all clad in leather and haha, sweating profusely in this thirty degree humidity. Many of the cops merely have the job of keeping people off the grass, for clearly in the old days the public were allowed to wander at will around the adjacent roads and avenues, including the surrounding green space. Not so now. A mere two step encroachment into an undesired area brings either a whistle or blast on a motorcycle siren. And you don't really want to ignore those warning signals, as you get the impression that all an sundry are poised on hair triggers, waiting for action, that thankfully never comes.......except......well except for the story of some daring nutter who, in a silver Honda, managed, somehow, to join in at the back of the Presidential motorcade as it roared down Pennsylvania Avenue and swept through the massive security gates in front of the White House. He was only discovered when the cars pulled up to allow the President to get out! What happened next was not part of the story told to us on one of our 'Trolley Tours'. At least he didn't tread on the grass!
Feeling in need of refreshment we happened upon a 'bar and grill'. We, as veggies are not necessarily interested in the 'grill' element of this but hold on reader, we have Merlin with us, who loves the idea of total immersion in American 'culture' which includes experiencing their heart attack jobs, namely burgers with at least six inches between the top and bottom of the burger bun once filling is applied. And that was what he got! But what we got, Trish and me, was a shock! As it was well after the aforementioned alcohol o'clock, Trish decided that a Bloody Mary was the order of the day. Our waitress, as accommodating as ever in this tipping paradise, took our order but then asked Trish for ID. Now, avid readers, this was a hot day 30+. We were pretty frazzled and in need of refreshment. This waitress was walking a suddenly taut tightrope. Did we have ID? No. Was Trish getting her Bloody Mary? No. Was my wife upset? Astonishingly at first No. Unlike her husband who pleaded her case, siting a daughter of 26 and an age of 47, she dutifully ordered a coke without rum or any other alcoholic enhancement. What a Woman! Secretly, I think she was revelling in the fact that she didn't look old enough to drink, here in the U.S of A. You know how women are. Me, a man would be just pissed off. But, I don't think that's ever likely to happen. Not now and not ever.
There followed a tour of the local shops during which Merlin picked up a copy of 'The Marijuana Cookbook, supposedly for son Ossie but.......... And then we were back on the 'Trolley' with 'Slim Dave' or whoever he was for the rest of the ride down to THE CAPITOL.
Of course the next stop was a visit to The White House. Although 'visit' is a loose term. There is obviously no chance of a visit and there is also almost no chance of a decent view, for it is now surrounded by trees and secret service police. The face of the building must now be viewed from afar, with ancient access points now terminated by cops on very fast and chrome heavy Harley- Davidson Motorbikes. Every now and then one of them would go roaring off into the distance in a show of subliminal power, all clad in leather and haha, sweating profusely in this thirty degree humidity. Many of the cops merely have the job of keeping people off the grass, for clearly in the old days the public were allowed to wander at will around the adjacent roads and avenues, including the surrounding green space. Not so now. A mere two step encroachment into an undesired area brings either a whistle or blast on a motorcycle siren. And you don't really want to ignore those warning signals, as you get the impression that all an sundry are poised on hair triggers, waiting for action, that thankfully never comes.......except......well except for the story of some daring nutter who, in a silver Honda, managed, somehow, to join in at the back of the Presidential motorcade as it roared down Pennsylvania Avenue and swept through the massive security gates in front of the White House. He was only discovered when the cars pulled up to allow the President to get out! What happened next was not part of the story told to us on one of our 'Trolley Tours'. At least he didn't tread on the grass!
Monday, 11 August 2014
Saturday 9th August......Deal Or No Deal?
Sometimes luck is on your side. On the off chance I called a taxi company specialising in airport transfers last night, whilst holding a bag of frozen green beans to my left thigh, which had come up like a rugby ball. A rugby ball with no leather covering. I didn't hold out much hope of a favourable price, given that Ade and Fran Duke last week had been quoted £50 for transportation from Toddington to just the other side of Dunstable. Needless to say, the Dukemeister refused to accept this price and haggled them down to half of it with the skill of David Dickenson, but from up North.
Imagine then my surprise when I was quoted a mere £54 from our abode, about two miles from Toddington, to Heathrow. This was £11 more expensive than the train but, as it turned out, an hour and twenty minutes faster. Money well spent. And in true, preparing for the US stylie, we even gave our driver a tip! So there we we were with time to burn and taste the new and latest latest vodka concoctions for free, while we bought bog standard at two for a twenty note. However, no amount of quaffing was going to dull the stinging from yesterday's altercation with the Tarmac. And as I was going to find out an eight our journey squeezed into economy class was not going to help either. The whole experience reminded me of last year in the Caribbean when Merlin and I had joyfully snorkelled for an hour with no sun protection or even a t shirt as worn by the locals. The pain of the following couple of nights as I carefully turned over in bed, sticking to the sheets as a fly to its paper, was exactly the same as the pain from the scraped flesh of the pointy bits of my body, which had taken the full force of yesterday's slide.
The flight to Washington with my two U.S. first timers was uneventful, which is always good, and soon over. The next hurdle was getting through immigration and customs. A massively slow process and one that you have to grimace and bear. The officials are a definite victim of what Trish calls the 'uniform syndrome'. That is give someone a uniform and they turn into an officious jobs worth. They take no prisoners here. And truly some people must seriously test their patience. For a start they don't allow any line pushing. All aircraft personnel line up with us the passengers and when one of the crew jumped line he was sent to the back like a naughty schoolboy. Next it was the turn of a stressed looking business man. He too attempted a line hop and was told to get to the back. Foolishly he ignored this and approached the desk again. Looking up from his paperwork the official said 'what part of get to the back didn't you understand'? So scolded he wisely vacated the local space. I imagined this happening in the UK. The queue jumper would have been directly to the official's boss with cries of disrespect and rudeness. No such here.
The next queue was for customs where my travelling companions foolishly followed me into a line which turned out to be for one post, while the other line was served by three. Too late to change lines our's slowly meandered forward. What was the reason for this? It turned out that we were being served by Mr. Magoo who inspected each and every passport inches from his nose as if each contained a vital clue to some mystery. Eventually we were in a taxi and on our way to Central Washington.
Imagine then my surprise when I was quoted a mere £54 from our abode, about two miles from Toddington, to Heathrow. This was £11 more expensive than the train but, as it turned out, an hour and twenty minutes faster. Money well spent. And in true, preparing for the US stylie, we even gave our driver a tip! So there we we were with time to burn and taste the new and latest latest vodka concoctions for free, while we bought bog standard at two for a twenty note. However, no amount of quaffing was going to dull the stinging from yesterday's altercation with the Tarmac. And as I was going to find out an eight our journey squeezed into economy class was not going to help either. The whole experience reminded me of last year in the Caribbean when Merlin and I had joyfully snorkelled for an hour with no sun protection or even a t shirt as worn by the locals. The pain of the following couple of nights as I carefully turned over in bed, sticking to the sheets as a fly to its paper, was exactly the same as the pain from the scraped flesh of the pointy bits of my body, which had taken the full force of yesterday's slide.
The flight to Washington with my two U.S. first timers was uneventful, which is always good, and soon over. The next hurdle was getting through immigration and customs. A massively slow process and one that you have to grimace and bear. The officials are a definite victim of what Trish calls the 'uniform syndrome'. That is give someone a uniform and they turn into an officious jobs worth. They take no prisoners here. And truly some people must seriously test their patience. For a start they don't allow any line pushing. All aircraft personnel line up with us the passengers and when one of the crew jumped line he was sent to the back like a naughty schoolboy. Next it was the turn of a stressed looking business man. He too attempted a line hop and was told to get to the back. Foolishly he ignored this and approached the desk again. Looking up from his paperwork the official said 'what part of get to the back didn't you understand'? So scolded he wisely vacated the local space. I imagined this happening in the UK. The queue jumper would have been directly to the official's boss with cries of disrespect and rudeness. No such here.
The next queue was for customs where my travelling companions foolishly followed me into a line which turned out to be for one post, while the other line was served by three. Too late to change lines our's slowly meandered forward. What was the reason for this? It turned out that we were being served by Mr. Magoo who inspected each and every passport inches from his nose as if each contained a vital clue to some mystery. Eventually we were in a taxi and on our way to Central Washington.
Saturday, 9 August 2014
FRIDAY AUGUST 8th......HIT THE ROAD JACK
Sometimes, surely by accident, not a great word to use given the subject of today's Blog, things happen in one's life, after which a well deserved pat on the back is the order of the day. Today the heavens opened.
It was the sort of rain, accompanied by a stiff gusty wind, that usually has one running for cover in The Caribbean. However, unlikely as it may seem, weeks of clement weather in our region of the UK was interrupted by such a downpour. As the rain lashed our conservatory roof, overpowering the guttering in need of a good clear out, I looked pensively out of the window concerned only for my daily bike ride, which, with the rain, was going down the drain. However we patted ourselves heartily having not seconds before, completed the task of putting away all the garden furniture including the gazebo.
I need not have worried. Caribbean style, the sun was soon out and the foliage began to steam and dry out. Time to get on the road. Another unfortunate turn of phrase. For the reader who has no access to my favoured, rather than favourite, social media site, I have in truth become obsessed ever so slightly with my new speedy bike. I purchased it in May and ever since 'we' have been at war with the clock.
As I ride, GPS tracks me and a smartphone app delivers updates, every kilometre, on my progress. Always against the clock. It's my own fault. I simply can't go out for what I call 'a pointless pedal', and since the arrival of my Boardman Sport, effort on the pedal is rewarded with a return of significant, for me, (not Chris Froome or Bradley Whiggo), speed. It's really quite exhilarating. I have to get out. Sometimes a double reward presents itself, with not only success against tick tock, but also a couple of quick pints at The Albion public house, which is about 10k from home, a third or so of one of my many countryside 'circuits'. I usually aim for a calorie burn of between 900 and 1000 per session, regardless of pintage!
Of course this has pedalled alongside my other obsession from a year ago, that of losing weight. I had to. I was getting problems with my right knee which physiotherapy had part cured over time but which a weight loss of 15kg had even more significantly alleviated to the point of no pain at all. So Mr. Obsession had more than one reason to get out once the rain had abated. Which is exactly how I work when it comes to exercise. Reasons to be active. And getting into trousers and shirts long since abandoned at the back of the wardrobe and a 'new' knee is reason enough. Not to mention a couple of quick pints at Bedfordshire's Pub Of The Year 2013!
As I set off, at the back of my mind was of course the next day's trip to Washington. Previously I have eschewed any 'dangerous' activity the day before a holiday on the grounds of injury which maywell curtail the looked forward to trip to wherever. Usually skiing. Not today. Now as I said before, I'm new to this road biking. These lightweight steeds go like shit of the proverbial shovel with the minimum of encouragement but at speed you do need to be careful. Trouble is, at speed it's pretty exciting, especially in the country side, Up Against The Clock, on relatively deserted roads.
Good job, for as I approached a familiar 90 degree bend I was about to make a rookie error! and one which could of had more serious consequences but thankfully did not. Road bikes have thin tyres. Lack of contact with the road produces speed. They also are, like formula one car tyres, slick. The recent rain on the roads was drying, but combined with the recent warm weather a layer of slippery stuff was awaiting the foolhardy. That was me.
There was no saving myself. As I hit the turn, all traction with the Tarmac was lost. Now I'm pretty used to tumbling. My early skiing days were pretty much all tumble, and since I mastered the art to my satisfaction, tumbles still occur but with less frequency but with more speed. Like this one. But the give from Macadam's invention is much less than from God's White Gold. I was soon rolling around in the middle of the road, not bouncing at all. And there was immediate pain. A lot of it. As I staggered to my feet, thankful for no oncoming traffic or more importantly You've Been Framed witnesses, I felt the burn. The burn you felt when falling in the schoolyard. But there were a number of burns. Knees, elbows and thigh.
I always carry water. So first job was to provide some relief by applying some. WARNING, try not to apply sparkling water to open flesh wounds. But that's all I had. Anyway, the Tour guys crash much worse and get back on their machines And pedal on. So I did, completing the 32km circuit in a truly pathetic time during which The Clock laughed at me all the way round. And no time for a quick pint!
It was the sort of rain, accompanied by a stiff gusty wind, that usually has one running for cover in The Caribbean. However, unlikely as it may seem, weeks of clement weather in our region of the UK was interrupted by such a downpour. As the rain lashed our conservatory roof, overpowering the guttering in need of a good clear out, I looked pensively out of the window concerned only for my daily bike ride, which, with the rain, was going down the drain. However we patted ourselves heartily having not seconds before, completed the task of putting away all the garden furniture including the gazebo.
I need not have worried. Caribbean style, the sun was soon out and the foliage began to steam and dry out. Time to get on the road. Another unfortunate turn of phrase. For the reader who has no access to my favoured, rather than favourite, social media site, I have in truth become obsessed ever so slightly with my new speedy bike. I purchased it in May and ever since 'we' have been at war with the clock.
As I ride, GPS tracks me and a smartphone app delivers updates, every kilometre, on my progress. Always against the clock. It's my own fault. I simply can't go out for what I call 'a pointless pedal', and since the arrival of my Boardman Sport, effort on the pedal is rewarded with a return of significant, for me, (not Chris Froome or Bradley Whiggo), speed. It's really quite exhilarating. I have to get out. Sometimes a double reward presents itself, with not only success against tick tock, but also a couple of quick pints at The Albion public house, which is about 10k from home, a third or so of one of my many countryside 'circuits'. I usually aim for a calorie burn of between 900 and 1000 per session, regardless of pintage!
Of course this has pedalled alongside my other obsession from a year ago, that of losing weight. I had to. I was getting problems with my right knee which physiotherapy had part cured over time but which a weight loss of 15kg had even more significantly alleviated to the point of no pain at all. So Mr. Obsession had more than one reason to get out once the rain had abated. Which is exactly how I work when it comes to exercise. Reasons to be active. And getting into trousers and shirts long since abandoned at the back of the wardrobe and a 'new' knee is reason enough. Not to mention a couple of quick pints at Bedfordshire's Pub Of The Year 2013!
As I set off, at the back of my mind was of course the next day's trip to Washington. Previously I have eschewed any 'dangerous' activity the day before a holiday on the grounds of injury which maywell curtail the looked forward to trip to wherever. Usually skiing. Not today. Now as I said before, I'm new to this road biking. These lightweight steeds go like shit of the proverbial shovel with the minimum of encouragement but at speed you do need to be careful. Trouble is, at speed it's pretty exciting, especially in the country side, Up Against The Clock, on relatively deserted roads.
Good job, for as I approached a familiar 90 degree bend I was about to make a rookie error! and one which could of had more serious consequences but thankfully did not. Road bikes have thin tyres. Lack of contact with the road produces speed. They also are, like formula one car tyres, slick. The recent rain on the roads was drying, but combined with the recent warm weather a layer of slippery stuff was awaiting the foolhardy. That was me.
There was no saving myself. As I hit the turn, all traction with the Tarmac was lost. Now I'm pretty used to tumbling. My early skiing days were pretty much all tumble, and since I mastered the art to my satisfaction, tumbles still occur but with less frequency but with more speed. Like this one. But the give from Macadam's invention is much less than from God's White Gold. I was soon rolling around in the middle of the road, not bouncing at all. And there was immediate pain. A lot of it. As I staggered to my feet, thankful for no oncoming traffic or more importantly You've Been Framed witnesses, I felt the burn. The burn you felt when falling in the schoolyard. But there were a number of burns. Knees, elbows and thigh.
I always carry water. So first job was to provide some relief by applying some. WARNING, try not to apply sparkling water to open flesh wounds. But that's all I had. Anyway, the Tour guys crash much worse and get back on their machines And pedal on. So I did, completing the 32km circuit in a truly pathetic time during which The Clock laughed at me all the way round. And no time for a quick pint!
Monday, 19 May 2014
Friday, 18 April 2014
Saturday, 5 April 2014
Thursday, 27 March 2014
Friday, 28 February 2014
Monday, 17 February 2014
Saturday, 4 January 2014
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