MARK HILL - writer guy

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe (Part 8)

2012-02-12T22:58:00.000Z

Now never let it be said that I am not the sort of hard-working, go-the-extra-mile reporter who does whatever it takes to bring back the real story. So to answer the often-asked question "isn't backpacker hostelling just an endless succession of hot, steamy casual sex with random women from other countries?" I was determined to get to the bottom of things (so to speak).
And a mere seven days and just two hostels into the trip, I'd managed to do just that.
Carin, I'll call her, a schoolteacher from a small town in Holland that I won't disclose here, and I had met the night before in what passed for the hostel's TV lounge. We'd spent a few hours and most of another bottle of cheap Italian plonk chatting about this and that then stumbled outside for a "walk" which, of course, was just a lot of snogging on a garden bench. Then back to my dorm where an elderly gentlemen from Dusseldorf in the only other occupied bunk spent most of the night pretending he couldn't hear what was going on.
We really only slept together out of boredom (sex versus Belgian TV, it's not a tough call to make), but by morning we found that we rather enjoyed each other's company. Enjoyed it enough to spend a day together in Bruges, at least.
Just a short train ride away, Bruges is exactly what you expect. It's a bit fake (okay, a lot fake) but lovely to look at. You could set your camera to high-speed motor-drive, swing it around pretty much at random and every single shot would turn out postcard perfect.
Bruges is, of course, a UNESCO World Heritage Site just like, it seems to me, every single other place on Earth with the possible exception of Birmingham.
I'm not going to bore you here with the whole "Bruges was a major commercial centre until the River Zwin silted up" story because (a) I'm sure you've heard that loads of times before on travel programmes and (b) this is not one of those factual books full of factual information and facts and such. The only thing I will say (and I think this definitely qualifies as a real Euro-fact) is that if you want to make friends in Bruges you should pronounce it the Flemish way "Brugguh" rather than the French "Brooges." It won't get you laid or a free drink or anything, but you may not quite be so badly short-changed on your lunch order and that's a good thing.
There's some attempt at giving the place an historical angle with museums and boat tours and so on, but basically and truthfully you go to Bruges to wander through its Disney-esque streets and stroll along its devilishly romantic canals saying "Oooh, isn't that lovely" over and over and over again until it's time for a genuine, authentic, traditional Belgian waffle (every one of which tastes exactly like cheap, frozen, toaster-cooked Kellogg's Eggos, but costs as much of a round of drinks in Soho) and a hot chocolate.
Which is what we did. We walked all over town, hand-in-hand. We sat on park benches, held hands and snuggled a bit. I stroked her hair. She drew little figures on my forearm with her finger. We looked, to the casual observer like every other couple in Bruges.
At the end of the day, we rode the train back to Antwerp with Carin nestled asleep in the crook of my arm and the two of us looking every inch like a normal happy couple who'd been together for years and were, perhaps, seriously considering home ownership and mortgage options.
There is an honesty in speaking a second language. "Do you have a lover," Carin asked upon waking.
"No," I said.
"I am looking for a lover," she said.
I was not to be that lover. But for a night and a day, we were happy to pretend. Which is what we did.
Then we arrived back at Antwerp's outwardly-attractive-yet-horribly-confusing central station, gave each other a quick peck on both cheeks, swapped e-mail addresses, waved a cheery "see ya around" and went our separate ways.
Carin hopped on a train home to her school-teaching job in Holland (hopefully with a significantly more than normally interesting answer to the question of "How was your weekend, Miss?) while I went off in search of a ticket to Paris.

This is an excerpt from my travel book Running Late: A high-speed romp around Europe.

It's the story of what happens when I set out in my 40s to do the backpacking trip I never quite managed in my 20s.

Click here to find out more, purchase the book or download a free sample from Amazon.

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe (Part 7)

2012-02-05T08:04:00.000Z

But not, as you might expect, to Brussels. I'd been to Brussels years ago and wasn't at all impressed. It's a fine city if you're being paid huge amounts of taxpayers' money to attend a European Union working group on EU-wide standardisation of bottle openers, have an unusual interest in a little statue of a small boy having a wee, or wish to sample 357 different types of beer all of which taste suspiciously like Stella Artois. I was not, so I chose Antwerp instead.
Antwerp had been sold to me as a hip, stylish happening style capital. My guidebook had even mentioned something about "fashionistas" and, while I'm not especially fashionable myself, I do enjoy observing the breed from afar. So, confidently expecting cutting-edge glamour, half-naked leggy supermodels and an all-pervading feeling of rampant Vogue-ishness, off I went by train to Antwerp.

I love train stations. Love them to death. I could happily live in a train station. I even like crappy little commuter stations, rural one-train-a-week stations and hideous mega-monstrosities like Clapham Junction. I don't like airports and I'm indifferent to churches, cathedrals and museums. But I do love train stations (and bridges, though more on that later).
Newsweek magazine once called Antwerp Central Station the fourth best rail station in the world and I have to agree with them. It was built at the turn of the century and expanded almost exactly 100 years later to accommodate today's high speed trains. Clearly it was incredible when it was built and the modernisation was done tastefully and in keeping with the original design. It is truly magnificent.
What it is not, however, is organised. It's an absolute madhouse. Nothing makes any sense. Signage is confusing. You have no idea where to go or how to get there. It's the sort of place where you stand inside thinking "This is amazing. I must take many photographs. Now how the fuck do I get out of here?"
The hostel wasn't on my guidebook map so I sought help and guidance. Purely by accident, I eventually stumbled into the tourist information office where the world's least interested guide tossed a city map at me with some illegibly scribbled and unintelligibly mumbled instructions to take this or that metro from this platform or another which I could pay for with these or those tickets from this or that machine.
Honestly! You'd think these folks would be overjoyed to see me. Or at least be mildly curious. I was a foreign person visiting Belgium for God's sake!

"Screw it," I thought. I'll walk. I like walking. I'd packed incredibly light. My new sandals were starting to break in. And the map was free (though I would happily have swapped Antwerp's free map for the Amsterdam equivalent which costs a Euro but comes with a welcoming smile and a seemingly genuine desire to help you find your way). So I set out on foot and, from the outset, it was abundantly clear that Belgium is no Holland.
The Netherlands are, as far as I could see, cleaner, tidier, more prosperous and better kept. The people are more attractive by a margin too large to measure with ordinary instruments and cleaner, taller, more lively and generally happier.
Belgians, by contrast, seemed to be frumpy, sad little people hobbling along on cracked pavements while rusty, faded second-hand cars and poorly maintained buses whizz by. Their shops are grey and dusty. Their houses run-down and depressing. It was like Liverpool without all the history and sense of humour. Or Birmingham without .... Well, it was like Birmingham.
Coming mere hours after the shiny, fresh-scrubbed, tomorrow-is-an-even-better-day loveliness that is Holland, it was, to say the least, mildly depressing.

The ever-optimistic Lonely Planet described the HI-affiliated Op Sinjoorke hostel south of Antwerp's city centre as "run-of-the-mill."
I'd hate to see the mill.
I had hardly arrived before I was pining for the Stayokay. God only knew what the Op Sinjoorke was before it became a hostel. My guess was that it must have been some sort of rest home for psychiatric patients or a minimum security prison for middle class tax evaders and the sort of non-violent social deviants who absolutely refuse to return library books on time.
Once again there was no kitchen, which pissed me off no end. The mention of a bar perked me up momentarily, but the fact that none of the taps worked and the beer was only available in tiny bottles suggested that it wasn't exactly one of the town's hot spots.
I learned later (just as I was leaving, in fact) that the hostel was built in 1930 as the English pavilion for a world exposition and had been converted to a youth hostel in the 1950s.
Back then hostels were all about attractive and healthy young people going off to do terribly sporty physical things out-of-doors (while dodgy scoutmasters with their gnarly hands pushed suspiciously deep into their pockets looked on, I suspect) so hostels were nearly always sited outside the city in the midst of fresh air, loads of greenery and not much else.
Nowadays, hostellers want to be as close to the city as possible which is why the hostelling association is, I'm told, planning to close the Op Sinjoorke next year and open something better located. Fat lot of good that did me at the time, though. The place was a good five kilometre hike south of the city in a depressing wasteland of grey concrete apartment blocks.
And as the area was mostly Turkish Muslim, it made buying alcohol (something I very desperately needed at this point) very much of a chore. I walked for block after block down crappy shopping streets all equipped with tinny loudspeakers and all playing the same awful Top Not-Quite-Hits of the 90s soundtrack before discovering a tacky discount supermarket (the sort of establishment that makes Aldi and Lidl look like Waitrose) willing to sell me a cheap screw-top bottle of Italian wine-lake plonk.
Vino bottle in hand, I retired early to my bunk determined to set off tomorrow in a better frame of mind. Belgium, I thought, may not be Holland (a country that, as I'm sure you figured out by now, I really, really like) but it must have its charms. I resolved to spend the next day discovering all that Antwerp had to offer.

Which turned out to be not very much at all.
First impressions are often wrong, but I spent the day walking pretty much all over the city, and there wasn't a whole lot to change my mind.
Antwerp is, with very few singular exceptions, a remarkably ugly, run-down sort of place. As mentioned previously, the central station is attractive. And the few notable tourist sites from the guidebook were okay in an I-guess-I'd-better-take-a-photo-of-this kind of way. But the notion that Antwerp is some sort of mega-stylistic, way-too-cool-with-hip-to-spare international fashion hot-spot is complete and utter tosh.
Wandering around the city, I couldn't help thinking that if I were a Belgian I'd spend my whole life wishing I was Dutch. As I would learn as the trip progressed, the Belgians don't actually like the Dutch very much. Nor, on the other hand, do the Dutch think much of the Belgians.
Many years ago I was I was in Guatemala climbing a volcano (now doesn't that sound like an incredibly macho Bear Grylls thing to say; truth to tell, it was a lame-as-shit guided tour). One of our group, a tall, blond, statuesque, drop-dead-gorgeous Dutch girl who (when she wasn't being fallen in love with by me) worked as a KLM air hostess, took a few minutes out of her perfect and beautiful life to explain the Dutch view towards their Flemish and Wallonian neighbours.
"The Belgians say we Dutch are cheap," she said.
"We Dutch say the Belgians are stupid," she added.
And then, with a haughty toss of her delightfully pony-tailed blond hair she said "As for me ... I would much rather be cheap than stupid."
I immediately fell even further in love and have, whenever the choice has presented itself, flown KLM ever since.
But while the Dutch are (justifiably, in my view) quite proud of their little country, the Belgians don't seem all that keen on theirs. Nor, it seems, is anyone else. Which makes meeting a Belgian on the backpacking circuit an odd experience.
All backpacker conversations begin with the same question: "Where are you from?" This is always answered by some sort of bland compliment, "Nice place," "I hear it's lovely" or something like that. Well, make that, almost always.
"Where are you from?"
"Belgium."
"Oh," And a pregnant pause.
"Mmmm," followed by raised eyebrows, a resigned little sigh, an apologetic shrug and a rapid scramble to change the subject.
It's that sort of place.
So I went to Bruges. That's what you do when you find yourself in Belgium and discover that it's, well ... Belgium. You go to Bruges.
But, this time, I wasn't alone. I had found a friend, a companion, if you will.

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe (Part 6)

2012-01-29T12:02:00.001Z

Even if you’ve no interest in World War II or Operation Market Garden and have never read the book or seen the film A Bridge Too Far, Arnhem is worth a visit if only to drive home the point that Holland is a clean, prosperous, well-run little country populated by decent, hard-working folk few of whom have anything to do with drugs or prostitution. It’s a fact about the country that seems to get lost in the stag-night tourism that is Amsterdam.
In fact I am currently proposing to the Dutch immigration authorities a new visa requirement that every tourist be legally compelled to spend one day in any Dutch city other than Amsterdam for every joint smoked, hooker visited or sex show watched.
If they go for it, you can picture the cop now, ticket book in hand: "Okay, one blowjob. A spliff. And two hours of on-stage doggy action. That’s four days in Rotterdam for you mate."

The Stayokay hostel organisation had redeemed themselves with the Arnhem hostel. It wasn't exactly close to town. In fact, it was a good hour-long brisk walk from the train station. But once I arrived, it was lovely.
The whole place was nestled comfortably in the woods, surrounded by trees and squirrels and birds and all sorts of that David Attenborough nature type crap that normally drives me bats. But, in this case, I really liked it. The six-bed dorms were comfy and each had a nice en-suite shower and toilet with two sinks. There was a bar, a cosy common area and a lovely front courtyard with plenty of tables and chairs to relax upon.
The only drawback, and it was a big one, was that like so many hostels these days, there was no kitchen. To me, a hostel without a kitchen is just plain absurd. Cooking your own food is the very best way to cut your travel costs without diminishing the travel experience. Even on a tight budget with loads and loads of takeaway and McDonald's in your diet, it's hard to eat for a day on less than a tenner. But a packet of pasta, a few supermarket staples and a place to cook 'em up can cut that daily food outlay to mere pennies.
As well, there's nothing better than a crowded kitchen full of backpacking cooks to bring the hostel crowd together.
I can not count the number of wonderful days and nights I spent on this journey in the company of people I'd met in a hostel kitchen over a hot burner and a few well-worn pots and pans.
I can see why hostels want to get rid of their kitchens. They're messy, need constant cleaning and don't generate any income. But it's short-term thinking at its worst. Hostels depend on budget travellers and budget travellers don't have the cash to fork out for three restaurant squares a day. But, to me, it's a false economy. Hostel owners need to understand that getting rid of your kitchens is the first step towards getting rid of your business.
A hostel without a kitchen is a hostel without a heart.

Back in Arnhem (and at risk of turning this from a flighty little travel book into a serious five-volume history of the Second World War) let me quickly sum up the whole Bridge Too Far thing.
As everyone knows from movies and TV, the D-Day landings had worked reasonably well and, as a result, huge numbers of American, British and Commonwealth and Canadian troops had firmly established themselves on the edge of Europe. All that remained was to push inwards, smash the Jerries, crush Germany, liberate Europe, end fascism and spend your off-duty time getting laid in return for a small slab of chocolate or a nice pair of ladies' silk nylons. It was a tough job and would take some time.
The top Yank, a smart guy named General Patton understood this and planned accordingly. But an overrated British general nicknamed Monty figured he could do better. So he hatched a ludicrous plan, which he called Operation Market Garden, to drop a massive load of paratroopers all over Holland then race an entire army up a badly maintained European B-road into Germany and end the war slightly ahead of schedule.
It was a cock-eyed idea. It was obvious that one small setback and the whole thing would fall apart. It hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of working. No one in their right mind would back it.
But everyone did.
Monty was popular. Everybody wanted a quick end to the war. And nobody had the guts to stand up and say "Fuck me! This plan really sucks shit!"

Hard to believe. But if you've ever sat in a business meeting where some highly paid corporate wanker with loads of PowerPoint sells a pile of rubbish to a roomful of supposedly intelligent people, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

A very nice lady at the Arnhem tourist information office had provided me with a small guide to something called the Freedom Trail, a sort of walking tour of the major sights connected with the battle.
Foolishly, I'd invited along one of my dorm-mates, a young Aussie backpacker named James.
James was perhaps the most boring man on Earth. He was on a three-month backpacking trip throughout Europe with the apparent intention of seeing all the sights and putting all the locals to sleep. I’ve never met a boring Aussie before. I didn't think they even made them. James was a first.
He was in the middle of some sort of grievance with his boss, the details of which he would explain at great length and in minute detail to anyone who would pretend to listen.
"When my performance review came around," he would begin, completely apropos of nothing at all, "she deliberately failed to follow the correct procedure. According to ..." this would then lead into a twenty minute discussion of Australian employment law as it pertains to minor bureaucrats. No amount of head lolling and eye glazing would stop him and he kept it up for the entire length of the trail.
The Freedom Trail didn't offer a whole lot, to be honest. Most of the sights were, like everything in Holland, spotless, well-maintained, spruced up and generally lovely. In fact, the film A Bridge Too Far had to be filmed in nearby Deventer because even in 1977, Arnhem had become too modernised to pass for a 1940s city.
I suppose it's too much to expect an entire city to preserve very much of a failed military operation that took place more than 60 years ago, but I couldn't help thinking that a few shattered panes of glass and the odd string of machine gun bullet holes would have been nice.
Still, at least the "Urquart House" at Zwarteweg 14 was still there. This is where Dutch Resistance member Antoon Derksen sheltered Major-General Roy Urquhart from the Nazis.
In the film, this is the bit where Sean Connery spots a few Germans out in the street and shoots them through the front window. It's a good scene, but I've always rather doubted that it happened. After all, wasn't he supposed to be hiding up in the attic? Wouldn't a British Army general know that gunshots are one of the more effective ways to attract the attention of the German army? And how do you clean a dead Nazi off the street? Worth thinking about before whipping out the old Webley Vickers 50-80, I'd guess.
The house itself looked very much like it does in the film. The attic windows looked like new build, but the rest hadn't changed much. Peering inside, the house seemed pretty ordinary. But I have to say, the olive drab painted VW Kubelwagen parked outside lent it a nice authentic touch.
According to a small sign on the door the house is now owned or occupied by an F.C. Willemsz and a certain N. Hulshof neither of whom I chose to bother by knocking.
The tour continued through 28 more war-related sights (and, I'm sorry to say, at least 28 more highlights from James's upcoming employment tribunal application) until eventually we came to the famous bridge too far.
The bridge was mostly destroyed in the war and rebuilt later on the same foundations and to the same design so it still looks exactly as it does in the film. And I was pleased as punch to see actual machine gun scars on the concrete buttresses at each end.
I was less pleased to see massive graffiti markings along the bridge. Graffiti covers much of Europe and, from what I can tell, no one seems to care. In North America and, to a lesser extent Britain, graffiti is seen as vandalism and the authorities do what they can to fight it. Not so in Europe. Once painted, graffiti lasts forever. As a result, the entire continent is covered with the stuff, as is the Arnhem bridge.
The Battle of Arnhem Information Centre at the foot of the bridge didn't have a whole lot on offer. There are no artefacts and few photos. It claims to tell the story through the eyes of those involved -- one wall each for the British, the citizens of Arnhem, the Germans and a slightly smaller wall for the Poles. There's a video projection outlining the course of the battle which reminded me of bad PowerPoint. But the presence of a very lovely gentleman by the name of Andre Vrijhoeven made the visit more than worthwhile as he explained, probably for the millionth time though you'd never know if from his enthusiasm, how the battle actually unfolded.
I'd never really got it before. I'd read the book a few times and seen the movie over and over again such that I can recite whole pages of dialogue, but it was never clear in my mind who was where and doing what. Watching the best scenes in the film (the bits where John Frost's lightly armed paratroops hold off a vastly superior force of German tanks) I'd always assumed that the Jerries were on the other side of the bridge. In truth, they were in the town itself. Thanks to Mr Vrijhoeven's patient explanation, I finally understood what was going on and couldn't wait to see the film one more time (except for the James Caan bits, which are rubbish).
Still I was very disappointed that there wasn't at least a small museum. I'd come all this way and was really looking forward to seeing a few artefacts from the actual battle. There is an Airborne Museum at nearby Hartenstein where Andre Vrijhoeven normally works but, like every Dutch museum I might actually be interested in, it was closed.
So I went to Belgium.

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe (Part 5)

2012-01-22T12:06:00.000Z

There are dozens of museums in Amsterdam of which the Rijksmuseum is the best known. According to Wikipedia, the Rijksmuseum "is dedicated to arts, crafts and history. It also has a large collection of paintings ... a substantial collection of Asian art ... and the Hartog plate."
So naturally I skipped it.
Come on! Large collection of paintings? Asian art? Give me a fucking break!
When I'd set out on this journey I'd pretty much taken it for granted that I'd be hitting most of Europe's major attractions. It wasn't until I found myself approaching the Rijksmuseum that I realised just how unattractive a prospect this was going to be.
"I don't wanna!" I said to myself as the place drew closer. And if I didn't want to go to the Rijksmuseum, I certainly didn't want to spend the rest of the journey dragging my ass through dull building after dull building just because it's on the tourist trail and in the guidebook.
So I didn't. At that point I resolved not to go anywhere or do anything that I wasn't genuinely and personally interested in. No matter how important or famous, if it didn't turn my crank I wasn't going. I was over 40 years old. So if I didn't wanna, I wasn't gonna. Which is why anyone flicking through this book looking for the "Hidden Treasures of the Louvre" section will be sorely disappointed.
There was, however, a museum I really did want to see, the Scheepvaart or National Maritime Museum. It's all about the Dutch East India Company and, as I am genuinely and personally interested in all that olde worlde exploring the globe stuff, I was dead set on a visit.

I walked miles to get there, all the while following the helpful directional signs and huge city maps that the tourist board provides. And when I finally got there, it was closed.
Not only closed, but closed for the next three years. And surrounded by high walls and, I kid you not, barbed wire!
Could they not, given that the place is to be shut for at least three years, have put a little notice on those aforementioned directional signs and helpful city maps? How much effort would that take?
I stormed away muttering angrily to myself about the uselessness of tourism offices generally and Amsterdam's in particular. Time was, such organisations would provide all manner of useful information about a city's attractions cheerfully and without cost. These days, often the only stuff available is provided by private firms who deliberately leave the location of major attractions off their free maps so you'll take their guided tours.
I was completely wrong, of course. Amsterdam has a well-run tourist office conveniently located outside the central station. But at the time, thanks to my complete lack of pre-journey research, I didn't know it.
Just as I was feeling thoroughly pissed off, a nice older man noticed me looking at my map and offered directions. As we walked and talked he apologised so often and so profusely for the unannounced closure of the museum that I began to feel bad for even mentioning it.
Like everyone in Amsterdam, the old fellow spoke perfect English with just a touch of an accent that makes men sound impossibly clever and women sound terribly, terribly sexy. As the gentleman explained, it’s all due to the legendary Dutch meanness.
"When the Germans and French show American programmes on television," he said "they pay actors to dub the script into their own language. But we Dutch love any chance to save a little money. So in the Netherlands, the shows are only subtitled. Which means every Dutch person grows up watching English language TV with a Dutch translation. It’s a perfect language course. And cheap, too, which makes us all very happy."
He also pointed out some local architecture and explained that, traditionally, the ground floor was for entertaining visitors, the first floor was for family living, the second floor was for senior household staff, and the top floor was for junior staff and storage. This explains why floors in Dutch houses get smaller as you move upwards. Of course, most are now converted to flats and household staff are pretty much a thing of the past. But that traditional hook at the top of most Dutch houses is still used for hauling furniture in and out.
The old fella had cheered me up no end and when we parted company, I felt much better about Amsterdam, my journey and myself. And, if you count the stuff about subtitles and the architectural info, I reckon I'd snagged two more Euro-facts.
Walking back to the hostel, I couldn't help but notice the pedestrian crosswalks. When you have to wait, they emit a slow clacking sound. When it's time to walk it shifts to an alarming machine gun-like rat-a-tat!
It was the perfect thing to put me in the right mood for my next destination.
I was headed for Arnhem.

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe (Part 4)

2012-01-15T08:56:00.000Z

I woke up early the next morning, surprisingly hangover free and after reveille, morning rations and a little close-order parade bashing, the Stayokay folks issued me a day pass and I set out to widen my perambulations a little.
Once away from the touristy centre, things took a decided turn for the better. Amsterdam began to look like a place where real people lived real lives, did real jobs and raised real families. Even the canals looked better as the ratio of tour boats to working vessels dropped noticeably.
The charming Amsterdam architecture remained and I loved it. I especially loved all those topsy-turvy multi-story homes all bent forward at odd angles. I know they've been around for hundreds of years or so, but most of them look like a good strong wind would topple the lot.
I loved the hooks at the top for hauling up and lowering down furniture. It's a simple but brilliant idea and why it hasn't been copied elsewhere is the sort of question that is probably answered in a better book than this one.
But more than anything I loved what I could only call "suicide doors." These are ground level doors on the higher floors that open directly to the great outdoors without so much as a banister or guardrail between the room and the clear blue sky. How anyone with pets or a drinking habit could live with such a thing is beyond me. "Aw honey," I imagined the conversation going. "That's the third puppy gone this year."

Feeling much better about life, my journey and Amsterdam, I set off towards the Oosterpark. I'm not sure why. I knew nothing about it. My entire research for this journey had consisted of the occasional flick through the pages of Lonely Planet Europe on a Shoestring. Still it had "park" in the name and I like parks, so off I went.

Halfway along the Middenlan I stopped to make use of one of Amsterdam's free pavement pissoirs. I'd never seen such a thing before and wanted to feel terribly sophisticated and European about it, but it didn't quite work.
The pissoir is essentially a drain in the ground with a curved iron wall around it. Trouble is, the thing blocks out your private parts, but the bits above and below the strategic area are quite visible to passers-by. For one who has reached the age where a piddle can be an on-again off-again sort of thing, this arrangement causes a level of performance anxiety I could have done without.
Still, despite my failure to vacate, the Oosterpark put me in good cheer. It was just delightful. I can't tell you anything about it as all the signs were in Dutch (and, let's face it, you've probably figured out by now that this isn't going to be one of those informative books full of knowledge and information and stuff) but my blissful ignorance just made it all the nicer.
There was so much to see. So much to make you happy.
Pretty young Dutch girls in skin-tight running shorts, none of whom had ever had occasion to say "it's 50 euros, honey" jogged by. Groups of convivial old men sat under leafy canopies passing the time of day over games of chess. The world's largest collection of ghastly artwork dotted the grounds. Tepid cheap Sangria served in plastic cups was available for purchase. Young mothers pushed babies in strollers while others in swimming costumes played with their children in the wading pool under the admiring eyes of single dads whose presence in the park may not have been 100-percent childcare related.
I liked it hugely.

A few hours later, having had my fill of pretty young joggers and yummy mummies in swim costumes (Okay, many hours later. I do have a high tolerance for these sorts of things, but eventually you have to move on), I popped back to the Stayokay for a change of camera batteries, a bowl of gruel in the prison canteen and a quick chat with the warden concerning the status of my parole application. Jason, from some place in the USA that I didn't quite catch, was there.
Jason was the oldest hippy I'd ever met. He must have been at least ... well, really fucking old.
Jason wore tie-dye. Jason walked around in Birkenstocks. Jason had a pony-tail. Jason referred to marijuana as "wacky tobaccy." When I asked Jason to hold the door open so I could take my laundry into the dorm he replied "No problem. I got your back brother," as if we were platoon mates on jungle patrol in Vietnam.
I liked Jason. He was harmless and gentle and slightly deluded, though probably a good man. But I couldn't help feeling I'd rocked up in a parallel universe as an unpaid extra in an episode of The Mod Squad.

RUNNING LATE: A high-speed romp around Europe

2011-12-23T20:38:00.002Z

The posts from this point upwards are excerpts from my travel book Running Late: A high-speed romp around Europe.

It's the story of what happens when I set out in my 40s to do the backpacking trip I never quite managed in my 20s. It's a fast paced journey through 30 destinations in 18 countries.

I'll be syndicating the book in weekly instalments over the next 12 months. But why not get your own copy. It's available at the bargain price of £2.32 from Amazon for your Kindle e-reader. Click here to buy the book or download a free sample.

Don't have a Kindle? Not to worry. Amazon offers a range of free apps so you can read Kindle books on your PC, Mac, iPad, iPhone or other smartphone. Click here to download the right app for your device.

Running Late: A high-speed romp around Europe.

Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Arnhem, The Netherlands
Antwerp, Belgium
Bruges, Belgium
Paris, France
Cologne, Germany
Geneva, Switzerland
Munich, Germany
Regensburg, Germany
Pilsen, Czech Republic
Prague, Czech Republic
Krakow, Poland
Vienna, Austria
Bratislava, Slovakia
Budapest, Hungary
Pecs, Hungary
Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina
Dubrovnik, Croatia
Split, Croatia
Rome, Italy
Genoa, Italy
Nice, France
Monaco
Nimes, France
Barcelona, Spain
Valencia, Spain
Seville, Spain
Lagos, Portugal
Cascais, Portugal
Porto, Portugal
Lisbon, Portugal

To view a selection of photos from the journey, click here.

Please read

2011-12-21T13:24:00.000Z

It really annoys me when people head something with the words "please read."

You see it on adverts. On web banners. And on inter-office e-mails.

It drives me nuts. It's what people who can't write do when they find themselves frustrated by their own inadequacy. It's a cry of desperation from the illiterate, the poorly educated or the lazy.

It's best ignored.

If you want people to read, don't say "please read." Instead, if you want people to read, write well.

Simple as.

Watch this

2011-12-19T20:49:00.000Z

I wear a professional diver's watch. It's got a stainless steel machined case, a heavy rubberised wristband, and a watertight screw-down crown. It's waterproof to 200 metres and will resist up to 20 bars of pressure.

I use it to time my cooking.

Somehow, the adventure man lifestyle continues to elude me.

Coast is the most

2011-12-14T23:45:00.000Z

I would love to live on the coast.

It wouldn't matter what coast. I'd just like to walk out my front door and see the ocean (any ocean) crashing against the sand or the pebbles or the rocks or whatever.

There's something about the sound and sight of an ocean bashing up against a landmass that makes you want to get into some sort of boat or ship and set off for someplace or somewhere.

It's a spirit of adventure right on your doorstep.

Boeing Boeing

2011-12-01T19:17:00.000Z

I'm scared witless of flying. Takeoff scares the hell out of me. Turbulence makes me fearful. And landing causes me cold sweats.

So I am very concerned about the aircraft I fly in. Which is why I will always fly in a Boeing and will, if possible, avoid an Airbus.

Boeing is a solid company, with a long history, with a military background, with a corporate culture created over years and years. Airbus, on the other hand, is a bogus company. It's a fake business created by a bunch of Eurocrats. It has no history. It has no culture. It's a make-work project for the EU.

You can see the difference in the aircraft both companies produce. The Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet is a beautiful thing. It is graceful and elegant and sweet and lovely and just one look makes you want to fly in her. The Airbus A380 Superjumbo, by contrast, is an ungainly, ugly, horrid looking monstrosity that inspires no romance whatsover.

Airbus planes are designed and built by office workers. Boeings are made by people who love to fly.

Where have we gone wrong

2011-11-26T17:30:00.000Z

We used to build monuments.

We built bridges.

We built things that stood the test of time. Things that stood as a testament to the greatness of mankind.

And what do we build today?

Well we don't "build" anything.We "make" stuff.

But what crap do we make.

We make horrid little bits of rubbish. We make so-called smart phones that won't stand up to a drop on the pavement. We make crappy little boxes full of flat-pack rubbish furniture that won't last one house move. We build houses that will be lucky to exist past the lifetime of the current occupants. We make loads and loads of horrid rubbish.

We need to stop this. We need to stop making horrible little bits of wretched awful crap and start building things that will endure. Things that have a purpose.

We need a lot less Apple in our world and a lot more quality build.

Greek bust

2011-11-22T09:35:00.000Z

I bought some Greek-style yogurt the other day.

It’s already been bailed out twice by French and German yogurt.

They say Portuguese and Spanish yogurt could be the next to go.

Come fly with me

2011-11-18T08:29:00.001Z

I've just finished watching the first two episodes of the new TV drama Pan Am and my oh my isn't it a wretched piece of crap.

It's a silly, poorly written, badly acted, implausibly stupid piece of rubbish that makes Melrose Place look like Shakespeare. Even the casting is pathetic; twenty-something GQ model types playing senior 707 captains, for heaven's sake!

And it's a shame because the real Pan Am story is fascinating. I recently watched the BBC documentary Come Fly With Me: The story of Pan Am then, after viewing that, bought and read Robert Gandt's definitive history of the airline Skygods: The Fall of Pan Am.

After all that, I really feel that Pan Am was a great company, an innovator, pioneer, choose your own adjective. Pan Am brought us transoceanic travel. It brought us the jet age. And the jumbo jet.

There is no reason why Pan Am should not be flying today. For it to die was a sad and needless thing.

Even sadder is the fact that the vast majority of people will not remember Pan Am for what it was, but will forever see it as the backdrop to a horrid bit of TV rubbish.

Call me

2011-11-16T13:43:00.000Z

I've recently discovered that if I don't talk on my mobile phone, my battery life is hugely increased.

It's really quite incredible. So long as I don't make or take calls, I can go days and days between chargings.

I reckon that if I go a step further and actually turn the phone off, I could probably go weeks without needing to plug it in.

I'll try it out and post the results.

Lazy days

2011-11-13T11:05:00.001Z

I'm a lazy person. Of all the things that one can do in the world, my favourite thing to do is do nothing.

There's nothing I enjoy better than a good lie in. This, in a perfect world, would then be followed by lying in bed under the duvet watching TV or reading a book. There is nothing in the world that appeals to me more than staying in bed.

People don't understand this. People can't understand why someone who is single, has few responsibilties and a bit of cash in the bank doesn't want to spend his time jetting off to the four corners of the globe doing interesting, exciting and fascinating things. They can't understand that I'd rather just stay in bed curled up with a good book.

But I would.

I'm lazy. It's just the way I am.

Highly knowledgeable

2011-11-06T14:59:00.006Z

Like everyone these days, I look up just about everything on Wikipedia. Despite its critics, I think it's one of the best things on the web.

I don't contribute. I don't edit. I don't even rate the pages. But I've noticed that on the section where readers are invited to rate the page there is now the option to tick a box which says "I am highly knowledgeable about this topic."

Now, as I said, I don't rate pages. But it occurred to me that this sort of "highly knowledgeable" tick box would be an absolutely wonderful thing to have in real life.

Imagine you're at a dinner party having a conversation about something you know a lot about with someone who clearly does not. How lovely it would be to raise your finger in a ticking motion, say "I am highly knowledgeable about this topic" and immediately win the argument. They would have to shut up. And everyone would move on to something more interesting.

The uses are endless. Let's say you're a world-famous economist. No need to waste time listening to some wanker droning on with his thoughts on the Eurozone bailout. Or you're the head of NASA and some twerp is claiming the moon landings were faked. No need to put up with that drivel. You simply tick the finger, invoke "I am highly knowledgeable about this topic" and be done with it.

In my own small way, I could use this sort of thing. I've been a professional writer for twenty years. I don't claim to be the best writer in the world, but after two decades I do know the basics. But I can not tell you how often I end up in arguments with people who simply will not accept that possessive apostrophes can not be placed anywhere you like, that infer does not mean imply and imply does not mean infer and that irregardless is not a word.

How wonderful it would be to have the power of "I am highly knowledgeable about this topic" as close as my fingertip.

In fact, if I'm ever given the chance to become a superhero, this is the super power I'd choose to have.

Kindle for me

2011-11-06T13:32:00.001Z

I've just bought the new Kindle, the smaller, lighter, cheaper version of Amazon's popular e-reader.

As a reader, I like the fact that I can carry around dozens of books in a small package. I like the fact that, if I'm riding on a train, I can switch from one book to another. I don't have to choose, in the morning, what books to travel with. I can take my entire library with me wherever I go and make my selection en-route.

As a writer, I love the fact that I can publish directly to the reading public. I can offer my books at a low price that makes reading affordable but still gives me roughly what I'd make from the sale of a conventional paperback.

I like the sampling option, the idea that someone can go on the Amazon site, find a book that looks interesting and download 10% of the book for free. It's a great way to discover whether or not a book is for you.

Now I have to say that it doesn't quite replicate that warm, cosy feeling of curling up with a good book. But, on balance, I'd say that Kindle is good for writers and good for readers.

Click here to visit my Amazon author page.

Jeans machine

2011-10-31T00:25:00.005Z

Everyone today is obsessed with success. But what is success? How do you spot it?

Shallow people measure success in money. These are the sort of people who think that the ability to buy a massive house, an expensive car and a pointlessly fast speedboat are the measure of success.

Then there are the hippies who think that living on a rural commune, knitting rugs, selling beads and living on ten grand a year constitute success.

I think they're both wrong. I believe that success in life is striking a balance between bringing in enough income to keep yourself well fed, clothed and sheltered and keeping the bank balance healthy enough to indulge in those little extras that make life worth living, but doing it all without becoming the sort of corporate drone who has long ago sold out to the man.

But how to measure such? How do you spot a success?

A Ferrari won't do it; only wankers drive supercars. And a tie-dye poncho is (unless you are actually a Mexican cowboy) the sure sign of a loser.

So here's what I figure. If you are a person who can hold down a good job at a decent salary and support yourself and your family while never wearing anything other than blue jeans, you are a success.

If you're not making a decent living you're a failure. And if you're making a decent living but your boss has the final word on what you wear to the office, you're not quite there either.

But if you can do what you do, get reasonably well paid for it and never wear anything but a pair of jeans -- well you, my friend, have got it made.

Flat Earth Society

2011-10-24T15:29:00.001+01:00

There is a common belief that, a couple of hundred years ago, most people thought that the world was flat.

It's utter rubbish. Nobody ever thought that.

From the earliest days of ocean-going sailing, people have understood that the Earth was round. There are two reasons for this.

First of all, when out on the open ocean ,the curvature of the Earth is readily visible. The horizon is not flat. It curves. It's easy to see.

Secondly and more convincingly, when another ship comes over the horizon, the top of its masts are first visible. Then the lower parts of the mast are visible. Then the upper deck becomes visible. Then the lower decks. Then finally the waterline of the hull. This is consistent with a vessel approaching over a curved surface. Even the most ancient mariners understood this.

So the next time anyone suggests that "people used to think the Earth was flat" you can explain that no they never did.

Read my books

2011-10-15T17:49:00.005+01:00

Two of my books are now available on Amazon. If you have a Kindle e-reader, you can purchase them at a very modest cost. And if you prefer to try before you buy, free samples are also available for download.

Click here to visit my Amazon author page.

Click here to read Deep Trouble, a light-hearted thriller in which Florida newspaper reporter turned private detective Rex Fowler finds himself mixed up with a con man, a crooked police chief and a cute cop, plus a murder to boot.

Click here to read The Hogwon Murders, a comic mystery in which Calvin Scott, the world's least successful freelance writer, finds himself in South Korea chasing a story, a pretty blonde and a killer, all at the same time.

Reviews on the Amazon site are most welcome.

Debt matters

2011-10-12T04:39:00.002+01:00

This world financial crisis is really starting to piss me off.

Essentially it has all been caused by governments and individuals living for years on debt. Debt that they will never be able to repay. And now, the answer to this huge crisis is for central banks everywhere to lower interests rates close to 0% in order to stimulate the economy.

All of which means that people like me, people who live within their means and try to put aside a few pennies for a rainy day are getting screwed. Our savings now make little or no interest. And on top of that, all these low interest rates and governmental printing of money is causing rampant inflation that further erodes our savings.

Take this case in point. I just received a statement from an investment firm with whom I have a money market fund. On a total balance of £12,727.66 I have received a total after-tax yearly interest payment of ... get this: £2.20! Meanwhile the profligate and insensible receive bailout after bailout.

The good guys are getting screwed. And it's not right.

Jobs done

2011-10-09T04:00:00.001+01:00

I have nothing against Steve Jobs.

I don't know him. I know nothing much about him. But I'm getting really sick of these over-the-top tributes to him that are appearing everywhere, both online and off.

I was in Montreal today and was walking along St Catherine Street when we passed the Apple store. The entire frontage was covered with messages posted by eager members of the Apple cult. Some sad soul had even placed an old iMac on the pavement with 'RIP' written on the screen.

I think this sort of thing is pathetic.

Steve Jobs was the CEO of a major tech firm. Good for him.

Then he died. Sad for him. Sad for his family and loved ones.

But for the rest of the world, it's no big deal. Certainly no reason to hold absurd candlelight vigils and post messages outside Apple stores and whatnot

He was just a businessman. He just sold gadgets.

It's not as if the Dalai Lama had died. People need to get a grip.

Fighting on telly

2011-09-30T06:55:00.000+01:00

Are military shows becoming the new cooking programmes?

Cookery shows have dominated our screens for years. But now military documentaries seem to be taking over. During the past six months, they've popped up everywhere.

There are shows about officer cadets at Sandhurst, raw navy recruits, the history of the Paras, submarines on secret missions, naval officers training to be captains, and dozens and dozens of programmes showing what life is like on the front line in Afghanistan. Most of them are pretty good, but I can't figure out why they're suddenly everywhere and in such number.

I was watching a show the other day about a Royal Navy submarine. The show was unusual, according to the captain because, he said "we're the silent service. We don't usually talk about ourselves." But get this. It was the third time this year I've seen the "silent service" on prime-time TV. There was a show about the "Perisher" course for captains, a programme where Heston Blumenthal cooked food aboard a sub, and a five-episode series about a submarine on a mission. Not only that, but two of the three shows featured the same sub and that very same captain.

Now I think the military do a good job and it's a good thing for people to see what they do. But if cookery programmes are any indication, we may soon be saturated by military reality shows.

I really don't want to see MasterSquaddie, Ready Steady Fight or Ramsay's Air Force Nightmares.

There is no I in illiterate

2011-09-15T11:53:00.000+01:00

A recruitment consultant that I follow on Twitter recently posted this tweet.

TOPTIP for designers and creative, consider how your CV looks! poor slapdash CV's are not good enough!! Your supposed to be creatives!

Now I know it's just a tweet. I know it's not supposed to be carefully crafted and proofread and such. But this is absurd.

Top tip is two words.
Creative should be plural.
Poor should be capitalised.
It's CVs, not CV's.
It should be you're not your.

To pack that much poor grammar into 140 characters takes some doing. And when you're talking to people who work in the communications business, it's not a good idea.

Condensation

2011-09-11T21:01:00.002+01:00

Why do we have condensation?

Really, what is the point?

How annoying is it that anytime you have a glass filled with a cold beverage the outside of the glass gets covered in water. The table gets covered in rings of liquid. Your hands get all wet for no good reason.

What is the point of that? Why can't we just pour cold liquid into a glass and have it stay there? Why do we need cloths and coasters and napkins and all sorts of silly things just to mop up condensation?

We don't need it. It doesn't serve any purpose. We would all be better off if we just did away with condensation.

Literally

2011-09-08T07:05:00.002+01:00

If there is one word in the English language that is mis-used more than any other it certainly is 'literally.'

With the possible exception of me and David Mitchell, there seems to be no one in the country capable of using the word correctly.

It's really quite simple. Literally is used when what you are saying sounds like an exaggeration but is, in fact, the truth. If, for example, I say something like "Bob has a million dollars in the bank" that sounds like an exaggeration, like I'm just saying that Bob has a good few quid put away. But if Bob actually does have $1,000,000 in his current account, I might say "Bob has literally a million dollars in the bank."

But so many people use the word incorrectly. They use literally when they mean figuratively. As in "my head literally exploded" which is clearly impossible.

Or they use it when not needed. TV chefs are the worst for this. They say things like "cook it for literally four minutes." No. Just say "cook it for four minutes." There is no need to use the word literally. No one thinks that four minutes is some sort of an exaggeration.

It's not that complicated. But I wish people would get it right. When I hear it used incorrectly, my head, literally, explodes.

State of nations

2011-09-04T02:28:00.002+01:00

I'm starting to wonder if our way of organising the world is right. Specifically, I'm wondering if the nation state is really a good idea.

We accept the notion of the nation state. We accept as given the fact that the world is divided up into sovereign nation states. We accept the fact that these nation states have their own currencies and governments and borders and laws and defense forces. But why?

Why does the Netherlands end and Belgium begin? Why is Germany separate from France? Why is Tasmania part of Australia but New Zealand is an entirely separate and sovereign nation?

What have national governments ever done for us? They've waged horrendous wars. They've run us into massive debt. They've created terrible conflicts with people simply because they live across some imaginary border.They've given us politicians, a group of lying, phony, self-serving, useless people.

I'm not sure that this is the best way to organise the world. What if we just had one big world. Let's call it "the world." Everybody could live in "the world." We wouldn't have to line up against each other with bombs and missiles and borders and passports because we'd all be in "the world."

Within countries, we don't have this artificial divide. There's no border between Liverpool and Manchester. There are no troops lined up on the Ontario / Quebec border. You don't need a passport to travel from Sydney to Perth.

But for some reason, we've created these weird things called countries. And we've given them incredible powers to control people, to restrict their movements, to wage needless wars, to borrow and waste huge amounts of money, to dress up a load of needless rubbish by wrapping it in a flag.

I say we dump the flags, ditch the nation states, sack the politicians and just get on with being people living in the world.

Passports

2011-08-29T14:44:00.001+01:00

There is a lottery in life. The draw takes place before you are born. It's the nationality lottery.

Be lucky enough to be born in Britain or France or Germany or Canada or Australia and life will be pretty much okay.

Get yourself born in Nigeria or Ghana or Guatemala or Bangladesh and it really doesn't matter what you do, your life is pretty much screwed.

It all comes down to passports. Basically if you have a blue or maroon passport, you're okay. Have a green passport and you're fucked.

Walk up to passport control in any country and hand over your Canadian or Swedish or Swiss or German or New Zealand passport and the nice friendly person at immigration will ask really tough questions like "how long do you wish to stay?" and "can I help you with a hotel reservation or call you a taxi?"

Slide up to the same desk with a Bangladeshi or Pakistani or Ecuadorean passport and it's a completely different deal.

I have a friend from Sri Lanka. He's well educated, law-abiding, holds down an impressive and well-paid job in the UK and, in most respects, puts worthless layabouts like me to shame. But travel for him is a nightmare. "Customs see me in the queue," he once told me, "and they're already reaching for the rubber gloves.

I, on the other hand, am a worthless, lazy useless piece of crap and yet experience no such hassle. In a lifetime of travel no one has ever looked twice at me. I clear border security faster than most people go through McDonald's.

I have two passports. I am a Canadian and I am a UK citizen. I am very lucky. Through no effort on my part, I am a winner in the lottery of life. I don't deserve it. I didn't work for it. I'm just lucky.

Fact is, the best thing you can do in life is to arrange to be born in a decent passport country.

Annie get your gun

2011-08-25T19:37:00.001+01:00

I think Annie Lennox may be the coolest person of all time.

If you're my age or close to it, you'll recall Annie Lennox as the lead vocalist of The Eurythmics, a band that helped make the '80s not so lame.

Then she did some stuff on her own that was really good.

And now she's in her mid fifties and still attractive in a quirky way. And interesting. And the sort of woman you'd really like to have lunch with and have a chat.

Annie Lennox: world's coolest person.

Clean machine

2011-08-22T19:38:00.000+01:00

We had the cleaner in today, as we do every week.

Everywhere I've lived, we've had a cleaner in. And I've noticed that cleaners don't really do a lot of cleaning. But they sure do a lot of re-arranging.

Our cleaner is careful to put the recycle bin on the opposite side of the kitchen rubbish bin. She moves all the upstairs bathroom toiletries from the right side to the left side of the sink. She makes sure to leave the shower curtain hanging outside the tub, as opposed to our normal practice of hanging it inside.

It's all designed to make it very obvious that the cleaner has been in.

She doesn't do a whole lot, in truth. I probably do more real cleaning than she does.

But she sure does a heck of a lot of re-arranging.

The post with the most

2011-08-20T18:54:00.002+01:00

It strikes me that postal services seem to be getting their names all wrong.

In Britain, letters and parcels are called post. The act of sending them on their way is called posting. The stuff coming through the letterbox is called the post. Yet the agency charged with handling this post is called the Royal Mail.

In North America, letters and parcels are called mail. The act of sending them on their way is called mailing. The stuff coming through the mailbox is called mail. Yet the agencies charged with handling them are called Canada Post and the United States Postal Service.

By rights, we ought to have the Royal Post, Canada Mail and the United States Mailing Service.

Only Australia seems to get it right. Australians refer to letters and packages as post. And the organisation responsible is, sensibly, called Australia Post.

Clever Aussies.

The biz whizz

2011-08-17T09:59:00.000+01:00

I've noticed that in TV shows and in movies, people, often murder suspects, have businesses named after themselves.

It's always Bob Smith of Smith Electronics or Steve Jones of Jones Enterprises.

But in real life, almost nobody names their company this way. There are almost no companies named after people. Yet, in television, they're all over the place.

Which makes me think that if you're ever faced with a murder investigation and one of your suspects owns an outfit called Johnson Corp, you can pretty much reckon that he did it.

Stand up

2011-08-16T00:44:00.007+01:00

The sound on this video is terrible. But it's me doing some amateur stand-up comedy.

By-the-way, thanks to all the people who saw the show or video then wrote in with advice about drinking problems, but don't be concerned. It's just comedy. It's exaggeration for laughs.

Show 'em your brochure, Sandy

2011-08-12T16:39:00.000+01:00

How often do you hear on adverts the phrase "free brochure"?

"Call for your free brochure."

Who, in the entire history of the world has ever paid for a brochure? A brochure is a marketing device designed to encourage you to buy a product. It's not something anyone would ever pay for.

So why all this blather about free brochures?

Must come from the same geniuses who came up with the "no obligation quote."

Stock shock

2011-08-08T20:30:00.001+01:00

Why do we care what the stock market does?

Why do we have all these alarming news stories? "Stocks drop sharply on news!" or "Markets lose value following blah blah blah."

Who cares? What does it matter?

It's just a bunch of people buying shares hoping they'll go up. They're gamblers. Who the hell cares what they think? Who cares if they lose their money?

Why do we get all hot and bothered when "the market" gets all topsy turvy?

Leave them to it, I say.

Beg, steal or borrow

2011-08-05T00:17:00.004+01:00

I think we're all pretty much screwed.

Ireland is bankrupt. Greece is bankrupt. Neither country has a hope in hell of ever paying off its debts. The president of the EU has just warned that Italy may be next in line to default on its debt. Portugal probably will, too. Spain may cook the books to avoid a technical default but will never, ever pay its bills.

The US has just passed a bill further increasing its national debt. As it stands right now, the USA owes $46,000 for every man woman and child in the country. And it's borrowing a further $3.8 billion every single day. And that's just the federal debt. States and cities owe even more. There is no way this is ever going to be paid back.

And that's just governments. People are even worse. The average American or Briton saves nothing. Most people owe more than they're worth. We are, individually and through our governments, dying in debt.

A friend of mine is typical. He was made redundant last year. Before being laid off he was on £95,000 a year, a bloody good wage any way you look at it. When he lost his job I said "Well, you must have a good bit stashed away. At least the house will be paid off." No, he said. He had pretty much nothing in the bank and the house had been re-mortgaged two times over.

And he's typical. I can't even begin to count the number of people I know who make a good wage and haven't got two coins to rub together.

Basically, we've all been living on credit for years and years and now it's all coming home to roost. None of these bills will ever be paid. Everybody is broke. Every country. Every state and province. Most cities. The majority of people. We're all bankrupt.

The crying game

2011-08-04T00:47:00.000+01:00

Women cry.

All the time.

The tiniest little thing and women break into tears.

But I never believe them. And here's why. Whenever a women starts crying she always dabs her eyes with a tissue or a handkerchief

But no matter how emotional and tearful she is, she never smudges her mascara or eyeliner.

She's broken up and emotional and brought to tears, yet she still has her mind on her makeup.

Makes me think she's faking it.

Not my bag

2011-08-01T08:59:00.000+01:00

In my kitchen I have a reusable shopping bag, a so-called "bag for life."

It's filled with plastic shopping bags from Tesco.

Somehow, I don't think I'm doing this right.

Get off the podium

2011-07-29T08:23:00.001+01:00

I think it's time we passed a law making it illegal for Olympic athletes to advertise. Because of all celebrity advertising, this is the absolute worst, mostly because the stuff they advertise never has anything to do with what they do to win medals.

I wouldn't mind if it did. I wouldn't mind an ad saying "Buy Acme javelins, just like Olympic javelin winner Joe Bloggs" or something like that.

But it never happens because few athletic products have much commercial demand. So you get these horrible tortured connections between the product and the athlete.

I'll give you an example. There's an advert currently running on TV in which an Olympic rower touts for a company doing laser eye surgery. Now if he were a biathlon marksman or archer or something like that, I could see the point. But he's an Olympic rower, so we get a series of horrid attempts to connect rowing with laser eye surgery.

We get: "Stroke of genius" together with a close-up of an oar, for those who don't get it.

We get: "They deserve a medal."

And, finally, we get: "The gold standard" from the voice-over guy.

Please, stop it. It's annoying for us. But more importantly, it's very depressing to see once proud athletes reduced to this sort of thing.

Lost in space

2011-07-25T00:34:00.001+01:00

I've noticed that when you lose something, your keys or mobile phone or whatnot, other people in the room will always pitch in to help you look. Nice of them.

But most often it's the person who lost the item who finds it. And when they do they say something like "Thanks everybody. I've found it." And then all the people who helped look say exactly the same thing: "Where was it?"

Why do they ask this? Why is this something they need to know? Of what possible use could this information be?

It's not like anyone is thinking "Mark lost his mobile in the living room down the back of the couch. If I ever lose my mobile that's the first place I'm gonna look."

In a pinch

2011-07-22T08:25:00.000+01:00

I watch an awful lot of TV cooking programmes.

And I've noticed that TV chefs always make a point of tasting their food. Which is good.

But every time they taste their food they add a pinch of salt. It's always a pinch of salt. It's never a bunch of coriander or some cumin or a few leaves of basil. It's always a pinch of salt. And it's always the same sized pinch. No matter whether they're cooking a single dish or a family sized pot, they always add the exact same sized pinch of salt.

Makes me think it's not about taste. Makes me think it's just for show.

Makes me think they're faking it for telly.

Faith

2011-07-20T01:12:00.000+01:00

I envy people who have faith.

I don't have faith. I don't believe in God or any sort of all-seeing all-knowing higher power. I never have.

But I envy people who do. People who have a guiding faith.

I'm not talking about stupid American Jesus freaks. I'm not talking about nutbar Christian fundamentalists who think evolution is a myth. They're loopy as heck.

But I do sort of envy those who genuinely believe that there is some sort of unseen power or force who sees all and knows all and provides some sort of rational, sensible moral guidance.

I don't believe and if you don't believe you can't make yourself believe.

But sometimes I wish I did.

Walk on

2011-07-18T22:46:00.002+01:00

I am a huge believer in walking.

Walking, in my view, is terribly under-rated by most people. But it is, in truth, a remarkable thing.

Walking will keep you fit without need for a gym or personal trainer. It burns fat. Produces nice shapely legs. Tones the butt. The sort of things people in LA pay big bucks for. And walking does it all for free.

Walking regularly has been shown to fight mental illness and improve happiness more than any anti-depressant. Forget the Prozac, just go for a walk.

Walking requires no fancy equipment or special clothing. A cheap pair of trainers and you're good to go.

Walking can be easily incorporated into your normal life. You can walk to work instead of taking the train. You can walk to the shops. Walk the dog. Walk in the park. The opportunities are endless.

So if you're sad, fat, ugly, tired or bored, here's my advice: tie on your shoes and go for a walk.

It'll make a world of difference.

Bag for life

2011-07-14T23:06:00.000+01:00

I've noticed that every television travel programme has one common element.

It's not a great destination.

It's not a brilliant presenter.

It's not great cinematography.

It's a bag.

Truth is, every single TV travel show presenter is always filmed with some sort of funky bag hanging off his shoulder.

Despite the fact that there's (naturally) a full-scale camera crew in tow, it's important to create the illusion that the presenter is simply hopping, unassisted, footloose and fancy free, around the world.

Hence the bag. Hence the pretense that everything the presenter needs for an around the world in 80 days pole to pole can be carried in one bag.

It's utter rubbish. I've travelled a good bit in my time and always carried one bag. And I can tell you that one bag travelling only works if you're prepared to look pretty much the same all the time and, now and then, sort of smell a bit.

Not the sort of thing that really works well on the telly.

Chances are the bag is stuffed full of old newspapers and the presenter's gear is actually being toted around by some underpaid TV flunky.

Germolene

2011-07-12T20:18:00.002+01:00

I had a mild sunburn recently and I've discovered something interesting.

I've discovered that Germolene doesn't actually cure anything.

What it does is numb the pain long enough for the body to heal itself. Even the packet says "with local anaesthetic" which is true. But what it doesn't say is that the mild anaesthetic is the only worthwhile thing in the tube.

Because that's what the human body does, it cures itself.

Doctors and nurses and medicines and creams and ointments just faff around looking busy and important while the body cures itself.

You really don't need them. If you can stand the pain, eventually the disease will go away.

How I miss typewriters

2011-07-06T00:01:00.004+01:00

I started writing on typewriters.

Typewriters with keys and ribbons. None of those silly IBM golf balls or daisy wheels or dot matrix foolishness. Real typewriters. Typewriters that made a solid "clack" when you hit a key. Typewriters that went "bing" when you got to the right hand margin. Typewriters that had real ink that would get on your hands and ruin your shirts.

Typewriters that made you a better writer. Made you think about what you were doing. None of this business of tapping out the first lame thought that springs to mind and just backspacing if it looks like crap. Make a mistake on a typewriter and you'll be painting half the page with white out, or replacing the paper and re-typing everything.

Not the easiest way to work, but it made you tough. It made you think.

I had a whole succession of typewriters. Some good. Some bad. But my favorite was an Italian Antares Parva. It was beautiful. It was smooth. It was graceful. It was like writing on Sophia Loren's inner thigh.

It was tough as nails, too. You could have tossed that thing off the back of a truck, jumped out after it and kept on writing.

That was real writing and I miss it to death

Underarmed forces

2011-06-28T00:01:00.001+01:00

I just saw an ad on TV for a deodorant spray. It offered "48 hour protection."

Who needs 48-hour protection?

As near as I can tell, the only person who could possibly want 48-hour deodorant protection is someone who doesn't shower every day.

Flat chance

2011-06-22T12:52:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine is looking for a new flat. He's got one of those little smart phones with internet access and he's been browsing websites looking at photos of potential rental apartments.

I just think it would be funny if, when he turned up to view the actual flats, they were all really, really small.

Meet and greet

2011-06-21T18:14:00.005+01:00

Okay business weasels, here's the deal: It's a meeting.

It's not a catch up.
It's not a sit down.
It's not a face-to-face.
It's not a touch base.

It's just a fucking meeting.

Lethal injection

2011-06-20T12:02:00.000+01:00

In movies and TV when the murderer uses a lethal poisonous injection they always do it just like a doctor.

They draw the poison into the syringe. Then they look carefully at the measurement scale on the side and then squirt a bit out. Finally, they tap the side a couple of times to take out the air bubbles. Then, and only then, do they stick it in their victim.

Why do they do all that?

Are they thinking "Hmm. Lethal dose: 20ml. Better not go over that. Could kill the guy."

Lay me down to sleep

2011-06-10T22:16:00.001+01:00

When I can't sleep, I imagine myself aboard a couchette on some romantic railway. Not the Orient Express, but something very like it.

I pretend that I'm cosily tucked into a bunk in a sleeper cabin aboard a night train that is, at this very minute, racing through the countryside of some faraway land on its way to some distant and terribly exotic destination.

In my mind, I hear the clackety-clack of the steel wheels as they run surely over ancient rails. I hear the wail of the engine's whistle as it warns of its approaching velocity. And, from time to time, I hear the unfamiliar sounds of communities alongside the track going about their day-to-day business without ever thinking about the man in berth 32B who is, at this very moment, racing past their life.

It is, I admit, stupidly romantic.

But it helps me sleep. And I wake up refreshed in the morning.

There's no 'I' in illiterate

2011-06-06T05:47:00.001+01:00

I get a lot of e-mails from people that make no sense at all. They are so poorly written as to be, quite literally, meaningless.

Yet for some reason, people become extremely offended if they are told this. When you get one of these e-mails and you ring up to find out what the heck they're talking about, you have to pretend that you "just want to clarify a few things" or that you "thought I'd give you a quick call rather than write back" or some other little white lie.

You can't come out and say "your e-mail makes no sense at all." I've done it a few times and people have become quite angry and acted as if I had committed some sort of faux pas by bringing it up.

It seems to me that illiterates are becoming the new obese; there are more and more of them about, but we all pretend not to notice.

Live simply

2011-06-03T20:19:00.001+01:00

I was watching a TV programme recently and Julia Bradbury the presenter was wearing a t-shirt that said "live simply."

Now I am not generally one who likes t-shirts with slogans on them. In fact, most of them are pretentious rubbish.

But I sort of like this one (and not just because Julia Bradbury was inside it). It's clear and straightforward and unfussy and it just kind of encapsulates everything and makes a lot of sense.

Live simply.

Yeah. Why not.

Mark's farm

2011-05-30T05:47:00.000+01:00

Just bought a large basil plant and put it outside on the wall in the back yard.

The garden gets a lot of sun, so I'm hoping it grows quite well.

It's just one plant. But there is something about tossing a handful of fresh herbs onto a meal you've cooked to make one feel like a real back-to-nature sort of guy.

Laundry day at Mark's house

2011-05-28T12:11:00.003+01:00

No wonder I enjoy such a reputation for being an imaginative dresser.

Get rid of your car

2011-05-22T21:53:00.000+01:00

Concerned about the planet?

If so, get rid of your car.

If you drive a car and profess to be concerned about the environment you are, to be blunt, full of it.

It doesn't matter how much you re-cycle. Or how much you spend offsetting your carbon footprint (which is a big scam, but more on that later).

It doesn't matter how much you donated to Greenpeace. Or how locally you buy your food. Or how many plastic bags you didn't use last year.

It doesn't matter if you turned down your thermostat. Or only boiled just enough water to make the tea. Or turned the tap off while you brushed your teeth.

Nothing matters if you drive a car.

Get rid of your car and you'll do more for the planet than everything else put together.

Keep driving the thing and when we're all dead and extinct, we'll have you to blame.

Do ebooks get better reviews?

2011-05-19T23:48:00.000+01:00

I read the other day that Amazon now sells more books for its Kindle reader than it sells in hardback and paperback combined. The whole ebook thing has really taken off.

But I was wondering: do ebooks get better reviews?

Think about the process of buying a conventional book. You might have seen a poster at the train station or an advert in a magazine or maybe someone recommended the book to you. You may have chanced upon a review in the newspaper or seen the author interviewed on TV. You probably popped into the bookstore, had a long look at the cover art, read the flap copy and the blurbs from other authors. Still interested, you likely flipped through a few pages reading a bit here and a bit there. And after all this, you made the decision and bought the book.

But despite all that, it's only when you get it home that you can really know whether or not it's a book for you. Before you crack it open and start at page one, it's all a bit of a crapshoot. It could be brilliant. Or awful. Or something in between.

Now contrast that with an ebook. You may go through a lot of the stuff noted above. But ebooks have one extra feature that makes all the difference. On most online book sites you have the option to download a free sample to your reader. The author or publisher sets the size of the sample, but it usually ranges from 10% of the book up to 20% . Which means that for an average sized novel you get to try out the first 10,000 to 25,000 words for free.

If you like it, you can buy the book. And let's face it, if you've read the first 20,000 words of a book, you probably like it. If it's not to your taste, you'll have ditched it long before you get to the end of the sample.

Since you often can't and usually won't review a book unless you've read it, chances are that ebooks, with their huge upfront free sampling, will fare better than their paper equivalents.

I've not seen any data to support this, but it does seem to make sense.

Job spec

2011-05-13T17:47:00.001+01:00

Just realised that when recruitment job ads say "Salary: Neg" it means negotiable.

I thought it meant negligible!

I'll have seconds

2011-05-03T22:55:00.003+01:00

I was watching some old re-runs of Top Gear and, at one point, they were talking about a car that went from 0 to 60mph in 10 seconds and that, they said, wasn't very good.

Then there was a car that went from 0 to 60mph in 4 seconds and that was just fine.

But I really don't get it. The difference is only 6 seconds. What can you do in 6 seconds?

It's not like you'll ever hear anyone saying "I accelerated rather quickly and with the 6 seconds I saved had time to cure cancer."

No TV for me

2011-04-25T00:44:00.001+01:00

Why are people so excited about high definition TV?

People buy special televisions and tune into special channels just for the thrill of seeing things in HD.

What's the point?

Real life is as high a definition as it is possible to get and you don't see people getting all fired up about that.

Nobody ever walks down the street and suddenly says "My oh my! That tree over there is so sharp and crisp and lifelike! This is a whole new and exciting visual experience!"

Free for all

2011-04-23T20:46:00.002+01:00

It occurs to me that any product with the word "free" in its sales description is almost always rubbish.

Fat free!
Sugar free!
Caffeine free!
Gluten free!
Sodium free!

Nothing that is anything free is ever any good.

Wet work

2011-04-19T17:11:00.001+01:00

I've just been watching a re-run of Top Gear and I wish someone would tell Richard Hammond that a canoe and a kayak are not the same thing.

A lot of people make this mistake.

A kayak is a flat bottomed shallow-hulled boat. You sit flat on the bottom with your legs stretched out in front of you. You propel it with a two-bladed paddle. Kayaks were originally created and used by Inuit (Eskimo) people.

A canoe is a deeper hulled boat. You sit across horizontal thwarts or kneel in the bottom. You move it through the water using a single-bladed paddle. Kayaks come from the people formerly known as North American Indians.

The picture at the top is of two kayaks. The picture at bottom is of a canoe.

Look it up

2011-04-17T14:05:00.001+01:00

I've noticed something about the word "doesn't".

It always looks like it's been mis-spelled.

Every time I write the word "doesn't" I feel compelled to run the spell checker because it just looks wrong.

It's not wrong. It's correct. It just doesn't look it.

Job title

2011-04-12T16:56:00.002+01:00

People who say they're in "sales and marketing" are always just in sales.

Home alone

2011-04-11T17:14:00.000+01:00

If you're employed by the Home Office and your boss tells you to work from home, how do you know where to go?

Here come the girls

2011-04-09T23:33:00.001+01:00

My God! Don't women have to do a lot of stuff.

They've got to shave their armpits. And their legs. They've got to exfoliate (whatever that is). They've got to do something Brazilian. And pluck. And trim.

And all sorts of stuff.

We guys don't have any of that shit. Basically, we need to wash. Clean clothes are a nice touch. But, when push comes to shove, if you're a guy, washing is pretty much enough.

But girls have so much stuff to do.

I really don't know how they handle it.

Sentenced to life

2011-04-07T16:24:00.001+01:00

I've been cracking on with my book the last few days. And one thing I've discovered is that I kind of like long, winding sentences.

As an ex-newspaperman turned ad writer, I've spent much of my career churning out short, quick, punchy prose. But the long sentences, I'm discovering, have a power all their own.

One of my favourites from the book is this: "She was statuesque and graceful and poised and stylishly but not overly dressed and perfectly but not excessively made up, and she danced like a dream."

I feel good about being the guy who made that sentence. I'd like to do it again.

Not all the time. Not too much. Short sentences still pack a punch. But from time to time, used carefully and thoughtfully, there really is nothing better than a twisty, winding sentence that picks you up and carries you along and drops you off at the end feeling better and happier and more fulfilled than you were at the beginning.

See what I mean.

The way to cook

2011-04-06T20:14:00.000+01:00

Have you ever noticed that chefs on TV always cook in directions?

Boil it up
Cool it down
Brown it off
Reduce it out
Fold it in
Warm it over
Heat it through

Where are they going with this?

Europe with Bryson

2011-04-03T23:27:00.000+01:00

I'm currently re-reading Bill Bryson's European travel book Neither Here Nor There. It is a delight.

It was the first book to show me that travel writing didn't need to be boring, or overly literary or full of facts that I didn't care about. It proved that a travel book could be a way to vicariously roam around in the company of an entertaining companion with a great sense of humour.

Trouble is, I've read Neither Here Nor There dozens and dozens of times over the last decade or so and, by now, even though I can still appreciate what a great book it is, most of the magic of discovery has gone. I can never enjoy it as much as I did the first time I picked it up.

I suspect this happens to many people with many books.

How nice it would be to have some sort of reader's reset button. Imagine a little switch on the back of your head that would erase any and all memory of a particular book. Simply press the button and re-discover any book for the first time as often as you like.

Wouldn't that be wonderful.

Don't cry over

2011-04-02T01:28:00.000+01:00

I was sitting in my living room this evening dressed, as I always am, in a white shirt and drinking a glass of milk.

I spilled some of the milk on my shirt and immediately dashed into the kitchen to soak the spill before it stained.

Halfway through dousing the spill with a wet dishcloth I thought to myself "Mark! It's milk. On a white shirt. What can it possibly do?"

Excerpt from 'The Grey-Haired Gap Tour'

2011-03-28T14:36:00.003+01:00

Here's me reading an excerpt from my coming travel book The Grey-Haired Gap Tour. Here I am in Arnhem, The Netherlands, the town made famous by the book and film A Bridge Too Far.

Excerpt from 'The Grey-Haired Gap Tour'

2011-03-24T15:33:00.000Z

Here's me reading a sample from my upcoming book The Grey-Haired Gap Tour. This is the introduction where I talk about how the journey got started.

Run for cover

2011-03-23T11:28:00.003Z

It's rubbish day and, as always, I'm wondering why people buy those ridiculous wheelie bin covers.

You know the things. Those plastic wrappings with leaves printed on them that go around your rubbish bin. They look absurd. And nobody is fooled.

It's a wheelie bin. Everybody knows what it is. Nobody thinks it's a short square tree that just happens to wander down to the road every Wednesday morning.

Cat-ch a Thief

2011-03-22T00:10:00.000Z

You always hear about cat burglars.

They turn up in mystery novels. And you see movies about cat burglars.

But in real life I think they're over-rated.

Because, when you think about it, you never actually meet anyone whose cat has been stolen.

Call centre

2011-03-21T09:28:00.000Z

Don't you think it's time we stopped forcing everyone on TV to explain in laborious detail how much a phone call costs.

I think it's fair that calls to premium numbers must be explained. But is there really any need for presenters to tell us that calls from a BT landline will cost 20p and calls from mobiles may cost more? I think most people know this already.

Oil take that

2011-03-13T12:16:00.001Z

I've been converted to a whole new type of moisturiser.

I'd never heard of it before.

But then some Jojoba's Witnesses came to my house.

Debt matters

2011-03-08T19:18:00.004Z

I am quite amazed at the number of people who don't seem to understand the difference between deficit and debt.

All sorts of people on TV and in the press, many of whom are influential public figures or members of government, don't seem to understand the difference.

It's really quite simple. The deficit is the annual shortfall between what the government spends and what it takes in revenue. The debt is the total amount that the government owes.

It's not that complicated. But it is a bit scary to think that our economic future could be in the hands of people who don't understand this simple difference.

Around the World in 80 Trades

2011-03-07T19:51:00.005Z

I've just begun watching Around the World in 80 Trades on the Channel 4 online player. I've seen it before and am enjoying it for a second time.

It's a four-part series in which city finance guy Conor Woodman sets off to make his way around the world by buying, trading and selling and, hopefully, ending up with a profit at the end of it.

Like all travel shows or books, it has a clear and sensible premise. It's not silly or gimmicky and it's not just a ramble around. You can understand why the person would want to do it and you might even want to do it yourself.

If you're in the UK, check it out on 4oD here.

2011-03-06T14:30:00.000Z

I've recently posted one of my unpublished novels online.

Years ago, I wrote a thriller that came close but never got published. Now, I've put it online so people can read it on their Kindle or other e-book reader. So far, nearly 600 people have downloaded the book.

It's been 10 years since I read the book. So today I started reading it and am really enjoying it. It's been so long since I wrote it that I have no idea what's coming next. It's like reading someone else's book.

But I'm wondering. Is reading your own book and enjoying it some sort of writer's version of masturbation?

A boozy question

2011-02-26T20:07:00.000Z

When I go through the self-service till at my local supermarket, if I have alcohol in my shopping the system requires staff approval before allowing me to proceed. A member of staff has to come over, make sure I'm of legal drinking age, then enter an approval code into the machine.

Fair enough.

But why is it that when they come over they always look into my bag at the alcohol in question? Surely they ought to be looking at me? It's not as if anyone is going to go through the till pretending to have alcohol when, in fact, they do not.

What are they doing looking inside my shopping? I don't get it.

I'll second that

2011-02-19T12:05:00.001Z

I absolutely agree with all the people who say that there's too much consensus in the world.

Travel book sample

2011-02-15T11:26:00.002Z

I've just posted a short intro sample of my current work-in-progress, a travel book called The Grey-Haired Gap Tour.

It's available for your e-reader or as a PDF here.

Comments welcome.

TED

2011-02-14T23:37:00.001Z

I've been watching a series of talks on TED.

TED is an international conference designed to "disseminate ideas worth spreading."

The presenters, who range from celebrities to writers to world leaders and more, are given 18 minutes to convey their ideas in the most compelling way they can.

They're not all perfect, but most are worth watching. And whether you agree or disagree, they sure make you think.

To check out TED visit http://www.ted.com.

Overpriced e-books

2011-02-11T10:55:00.001Z

I've been blogging a lot about e-books these days and if you've been reading along you'll know that I rather like the idea, but I think they have a way to go before I commit to one type or another.

One thing keeping me from taking the plunge is the absurd pricing. New releases are often cheaper in electronic form but not, in my opinion, cheap enough. And the back catalogue seems to offer no savings at all. Consider some examples.

One of my favourite books, Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There is £5.08 in the Kindle edition and £5.35 in paperback. Hardly much of a saving. Bryson's Notes From A Small Island is almost the same price at £5.09 and £5.36 respectively.

If you're a Peter Mayle fan then reading his south of France adventures on your Kindle will actually cost you more than cuddling up with a paperback. A Year In Provence is only £4.98 in paperback. But the Kindle version will set you back £6.99. The follow up Toujours Provence can be had for £6.84 in paperback but costs £7.99 in electronic form.

I could go on and on quoting these ludicrous prices. There's no good reason for them. Now I know that e-books are subject to 20% VAT while printed copies are VAT-free. But that doesn't come close to justifying the high price of electronic reading.

The way I see it, an e-book needs no paper, no printing, no distribution, no bookshelf space and so on. Therefore, in my view an average book should be able to adequately compensate the writer, the online bookseller and the few people involved in digitising the thing and still cost no more than £3.

Communications Guide

2011-02-10T17:15:00.000Z

I should also mention that my booklet "The Writer Guy's Guide to Communications: How to use 26 letters, a few simple punctuation marks, and a little basic common sense to get your messages heard, understood and believed." is also available for free download either to an e-reader or as an easy-to-print PDF.

If you're involved in any sort of communications, it makes helpful reading. Click here to get your free copy.

Power pointless

2011-02-07T21:34:00.000Z

One thing I've noticed in life is that nothing of any value is ever presented in Powerpoint.

In fact, anything displayed in Powerpoint is always rubbish. Any e-mail with a Powerpoint attachment can be safely deleted unread. Any meeting where the speaker brings Powerpoint can be safely missed.

If you have the seniority and power to do so and you want a simple way to reduce the amount of worthless crap in your working life, make a rule: no Powerpoint.

A glass of bush tukka

2011-02-04T16:43:00.001Z

Just bought one of those boxes of wine from the supermarket.

I like to take the silver bag out of the box. That way I feel like I've not just got wine. I've got emergency supplies.

Makes me feel like Ray Mears!

School daze

2011-02-03T21:26:00.000Z

Gotta pity the headline writer who came up with this one.

The Grey-Haired Gap Tour

2010-01-01T14:46:00.006Z

All the posts from this point back are from my 2009 3-month backpacking tour of Europe.

The Grey-Haired Gap Tour

2009-09-21T20:23:00.011+01:00

Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Arnhem, The Netherlands
Antwerp, Belgium
Bruges, Belgium
Paris, France
Cologne, Germany
Geneva, Switzerland
Munich, Germany
Regensburg, Germany
Pilsen, Czech Republic
Prague, Czech Republic
Krakow, Poland
Vienna, Austria
Bratislava, Slovakia
Budapest, Hungary
Pecs, Hungary
Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina
Dubrovnik, Croatia
Split, Croatia
Rome, Italy
Genoa, Italy
Nice, France
Monaco
Nimes, France
Barcelona, Spain
Valencia, Spain
Seville, Spain
Lagos, Portugal
Cascais, Portugal
Porto, Portugal
Lisbon, Portugal

By the numbers:

16 countries and 1 principality
31 destinations
86 days
A total cost of £4,602 or £53.51 per day.

The End of the Road

2009-09-21T20:17:00.018+01:00

Sadly, the journey closes today.

Photos: Final drink, at the airport bar, in the line to board the flight out, BA 507 out of Lisbon for Heathrow.

Ponte 25 de Abril, Lisboa, Portugal

2009-09-19T15:37:00.016+01:00

I love bridges.

Most people travel around looking at churches, but not me. To me, unless you're religious (and what thinking person is, these days) churches aren't terribly useful. But a bridge is always useful.

A bridge may be beautiful. A bridge may be an architectural marvel. An engineering masterpiece. A design classic. A piece of history. A monument to something or someone. But whatever a bridge is or isn't, there's always some guy at one side of the river who wants to get to the other side of the river. And he can do it because of the bridge. That's why I love bridges.

Here are some pics of the Ponte de 25 Abril in Lisbon. If it looks familiar it's because it was built by the same firm who did the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

Lisbon, Portugal

2009-09-18T15:46:00.003+01:00

Porto, Portugal

2009-09-16T11:52:00.004+01:00

Spent the day exploring Porto, the home of port wine, in the very pleasant company of Laura and Sarah, two delightful girls from Tazzy. Ended the day with a lovely feast of port and cheese back at the highly recommended Yellow House hostel.

Cascais, Portugal

2009-09-12T10:41:00.003+01:00

Feeling a little sad today here in Cascais, Portugal. The end of the trip is only nine days away so I've got to start thinking about finding a place to live in London, getting some work and so on. I've been hopping around for so long now, it seems normal. I am looking forward to getting my teeth into writing the book, though.

Lagos, Portugal

2009-09-11T21:21:00.010+01:00

A little night-time music in the courtyard of the Lagos hostel. Natalie from Seattle, Washington and the omnipresent Pete from the UK. Plus a few pics from the lovely hostel and one from the town.

Nearing the end

2009-09-07T10:40:00.002+01:00

Well, I've still got some more exploring to do in Portugal, but the footloose and fancy free days are about over. I've just booked a flight back to London for Monday September 21st.

Spanish crosswalk signals

2009-09-07T10:28:00.002+01:00

Love this. Play the video to see how the little man speeds up when there are only a few seconds left to cross.

Oasis Hostel, Seville

2009-09-05T18:39:00.002+01:00

It´s not often you find a hostel with a pool on the roof for 20 euros a night.

Seville, Spain

2009-09-05T11:35:00.004+01:00

A few shots from the Alcazar including one of me in "Europe´s Least Interesting Fountain." And the lovely Caroline from Zurich.