Tag: Travel

7 Reasons You Should Not Kayak Across The Pacific Ocean

If you are one of these hipsters who likes to engage in social networking via the likes of facebook and twitter, it is very likely that one, two or maybe all of your friends have posted a ‘funny’ piece of travel advice they have found on Google Maps. I say ‘funny’ in inverted commas because it is actually a very serious matter. The matter I refer to is the ‘joke’ that tells prospective travellers to make the journey from the USA to Japan via the Pacific Ocean in a kayak. How utterly irresponsible. There are many, many reasons why one should not do as Google Maps suggests, but to save my sanity (and your life) here are just seven.

1. Food. An average kayaker will travel at 5mph. Given that Google Maps says the distance – via Hawaii – between USA and Japan is 2,756 miles, it will take the adventurer just over 551 hours to make the journey. That’s a touch under 23 days. That’s 23 days worth of food you have to take with you. Now, assuming – as is very likely considering the departure point – that the traveller is American, that’s 89,537 calories. Or 92.7 Big Mac Meals. A kayak has storage for about 20 Big Mac Meals. You do the maths.

2. Sharks. The good news is, that out of the 440 species of shark found on our planet, only 36 of them exist in the Pacific Ocean. (Approximately. I am sure others visit for a day now and then.) Unfortunately, within the 36 species is the Great White Shark. The Great White Shark accounts for 20% of worldwide shark attacks. And, just before you come back at me with the stat, ‘of the 108 unprovoked attacks within the Pacific Ocean in the 20th century, only five included kayakers,’ let me tell you that there has never, ever been a Great White Shark attack on a plane.

3. Paddle. You may have heard of the phrase, ‘Up the creek without a paddle’. For those of you who haven’t, it basically means you are in a very serious situation and you haven’t got a bloody clue how you are going to get out of it. If you drop your paddle between the USA and Japan, you can change the word ‘creek’ for ‘Pacific’ but you can’t change the meaning.

4. Iodine. The average human will die if they go for more than three days without water. Luckily, in the Pacific Ocean you will find loads of it. Unluckily, if you drink too much of it, you will also die. That’s because it’s saltwater. If you are going to survive you are going to have to desalinate the seawater. You can do this by either attaching a desalination plant to your kayak – in which case you’ll sink before you even leave the beach – or you can use iodine. You will have to leave ten Big Mac Meals behind, but to survive it is probably worth it. The problem comes when you try and desalinate your beaker of water. You’re in a kayak. On the ocean. It’s bumpy. You have your paddle in one hand, the iodine in the other and the beaker between your legs. Now, I’ve never tried desalinating my penile appendage, but if I did, the middle of the Pacific Ocean, in a kayak, is a place where I know I couldn’t possibly fail. Unless…

5. A Sudden Wave hits the kayak. In which case the iodine might go overboard and desalinate the whole of the Ocean. You are going to murder many, many saltwater fish. And you’re heading to Japan. A country that’s built on fish (one in ten fish is eaten there). They’re not going to greet you warmly are they?

6. Tankers. Generally these are big ships who have very little interest in small-fry like you in your kayak. Mainly because they are always on auto-pilot while the captain has a snooze. If you just happen to be having a snooze at the same time, you are going to get crushed. And, just a warning, if you do survive, there is no point in shouting ‘Tanker!’ at them and waving your fist, if you do, you’ll miss the giant squid that’s about to squirt you with ink.

7. Jovan Pestoric Will Kiss You. In doing my research for this post – I came across the following Yahoo! Answers page where Lovely had asked if it was possible to kayak across the Pacific Ocean. There were only a few answers. One gave Lovely some valuable advice and advised it was not possible. They then said ‘Have fun!’. Then Javon Pestoric announced, ‘yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! omg if u do it ill kiss u’. I have no idea who Jovan is and, if watching people kayak over the Pacific Ocean is his kind of fetish, I don’t think I want to know either.

November 10, 2010
7 Reasons Rome Clearly Had It In For Me

As an Englishman, when I travel abroad I like to cause as little trouble as possible. Sadly, when I went to Rome, trouble looked for me.

1. Roads. Now, call me a traditionalist, but I like two things from my roads. One: they should be fit for vehicles to manoeuvre up and down, and two: there should be occasional sets of traffic lights where those who have decided to travel upon foot can cross the road safely. While Rome provides both roads and traffic lights, it seems as if someone forgot to tell the drivers to stop when the little green man appears. As a result my holiday was nearly abruptly ended by six cars, two buses, fourteen mopeds and one skater.

2. Maps. I know it sounds like a cliche, but when one sees a free map, they should pick it up. I did just that. And for most of the first day I was able to understand it – we were still in Rome at least. That was until I started walking back to the hotel. The designers, in their Italian wisdom, had decided to mark the main tourist attractions on the map using small, 3D illustrations. And, to be fair to them, they did resemble the real-life draws. Unfortunately, they rarely appeared on the map facing the right direction. Consequently, I spent much of the walk home looking for the steps leading to the Campidoglio on the wrong road. To cut a long story short, we ended up back where we had started an hour earlier and I never held possession of the map again.

3. Wine. It is a well known fact in 7 Reasons circles that I am something of an amateur tea connoisseur. Sadly this is the only liquid based-substance that I have such a relationship with. Wine, for example, is something of an unknown quantity to me. There are three things I know about it. One, it comes in white; two, it comes in red; and, three, it should not be thrown over your girlfriend. Sadly, while Rome offered both white and red varieties, it also offered the opportunity for me to knock a glass over. Which I promptly accepted.

4. Gladiators. They’re an amorous lot. Even the fake ones hanging around the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Pantheon. Actually, let’s just call it Rome. They’re everywhere. And they took far too much of a liking to my girlfriend. If they weren’t trying to kiss her they were calling her Princess or offering to slay me. Yes, I know, it’s enough to make one quite nauseous. I mean, it was the type of behaviour I’d expect from the French or Piers Morgan.

5. String Sellers. Standing at the top of the Spanish Steps I was accustomed by two gentlemen, who – without invitation – decided to wrap string around my wrist. I was rather taken with the colours so allowed them to continue. ‘How nice,’ I thought, ‘no one has ever tied my wrists up in England before.’. As the string wound it’s way around my wrist to form a bracelet, I was told to make three wishes. ‘How nice,’ I thought, ‘this chap is certainly more friendly than that genie in a bottle.’. When he had finished, the other nice man decided to open his wallet to show me all the lovely notes inside. Initially I thought I got to choose which denomination of Euro I’d like, but after asking for €20 he became a bit grumpy. For a minute I thought he was asking me for money. Then I realised he actually was. At which point we became embroiled in a bitter stand off. They both wanted money for a bit of string, I wanted the string but not at a price. Sadly this story comes to a hugely anti-climatic end as, instead of letting me enjoy a bit of a fracas with Mussolini and Pinocchio, my girlfriend decided to gallop over and drag me away. At which point Pinocchio got all precious, whipped out his toe-nail clippers and cut the string. In doing so all my wishes were cast aside. Which just goes to show, in Rome you have to pay at least €5 for a yacht, a unlimited supply of tea-bags and a speaking dolphin.

6. Sarah. If I were a woman, and I can’t in all honesty say I have ever considered it as a career option, I suspect Sarah would be a name I would strongly consider. Or at least it would have been had I not been called it dozens upon dozens of times in Rome. On the first night, I assumed I had just done something effeminate with my hair, but, having altered my style every night thereafter, the Sarah-tag just wouldn’t leave. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Then I discovered they were actually saying, ‘Sera’. It means, ‘Evening’. I felt silly.

7. Hotel. I chose our hotel, so, upon arrival, I was somewhat relieved to find that I had indeed booked us into somewhere quite nice. There were no tea and coffee facilities, but on the plus side we did get slippers. The hotel carried on being pleasant until our final night when we suddenly noticed dozens of blue flashing lights creeping through the shutters in our room. Upon moving to the window, we opened the shutters to see the street lined with Police. And looking to our left we saw the start of a protest rally. Half an hour later the rally was holding a noisy, sit-down protest. In the road. Right outside our hotel. Like I say though, we did have slippers.

October 25, 2010
7 Reasons My Italian Self-Teaching May Get Me Into Trouble

Hello. I’m on a plane. At least I am if you are reading this at 9am on Monday morning. If you are reading it at 9pm on Monday evening then I bloody well hope I’m not on a plane and if you are reading it in June 2014, well, I couldn’t really care less. I’m assuming, as I write, that it is 9am on Monday morning and I am currently on a plane that is destined for Italy. Yes, I’m going on holiday. I thought you’d be pleased. Over the last week, I have done a little language based learning. And, in what is quite a coincidence, I have been learning Italian. Unfortunately, I am not the best when it comes to languages. Partly because I always sound a bit Indian when speaking with another tongue and partly because I just can’t be bothered with it. Which, I admit, is an abysmal attitude to have, but I will gladly take any applause you are prepared to give me for honesty. As a result of these two factors, the Italians might be in for something of a shock. Here’s why:

1. Accents. My Italian accent isn’t very good. Unless you like Italian accents that sound Indian. I imagine the Italians don’t.

2. What A Mistaka To Maka. I can’t help it. Without a teacher I revert to learning my Italian from Allo! Allo! clips on YouTube. I keep adding the letter ‘a’ onto anything I say. Oh, and I’m speaking English.

3. Roma! Lazio! The only words I can pronounce with any confidence are the names of football clubs or, indeed, names of footballers. I may get away with randomly shouting ‘Cannavaro!’ and ‘Del Piero!’ but I imagine I would not with ‘Totti!’. And, talking about football, Italy are playing Serbia tomorrow night. Along with many people in the 1990s, I watched Football Italia on Channel 4. And, along with many people, I always assumed the phrase uttered at the end of the opening credits – ‘Golaccio!’ – meant…

4. ‘Goal Lazio!!’. That’s what it sounded like after all. You can see it here if you need reminding/have no idea what I’m going on about. Now ‘Golaccio’ may seem like a sensible thing to say if Lazio’s Sergio Floccari finds the back of the net for his national side. But it wouldn’t be. For the simple reason that the word is actually ‘Golazo’. And it’s Spanish. And despite finding this out, I know it’s not going to make any bloody difference. I am still going to shout ‘Golazo!’ if Italy score. Or Spain. Or Serbia. Or England. Because that’s me. And no one would have me any other way.

5. French. The only language I have ever learnt – apart from English and Latin obviously – is French. And, despite years of trying to forget such nonsense, I still seem to remember a fair bit of it. And the reason I know this is because unwelcome words keeps slipping into my otherwise expertly recited Italian phrases, ‘Buon giorno. Parla inglese, s’il vous plaît?’. If someone started asking me a question in English and then slipped in something about frogs-legs, I’d be furious. I would expect the Italians to be similar.

6. Hands. Whether it’s a myth or not, Italian’s are famous for their hand gestures. So I’ve been practising mine too. So far, I have the ‘bang on desk’, the ‘I’ve got the whole world in my hands’ and the ‘bunny shadow’ gestures in my repetoire. And they make very little sense with my Italian/French/Indian speil.

7. Pizza. I spent much of my time in the week before Rome, practising the pronunciation of pizza names using a Pizza Express menu. As a result I am unlikely to be able to eat anything other than pizza for the whole week. While this is not a problem in itself, the fact that I can only pronounce Margherita with any confidence, could be.

October 11, 2010
7 Reasons to Leave Your Car at Home

It’s World Car-Free Day today. And to celebrate, here are seven reasons to leave your car at home.

1. It’s Healthier. Rather than driving to work, and getting stressed and aggravated at the wheel of a car on the way, you can cycle instead. It’s much better for you, and you won’t just be sitting there, impotently experiencing road rage, so you’ll feel really good and be a lot healthier as a result. Well, until you get run over by a minicab and offered a fight by a disproportionately cross man in a white pick-up truck, that is. But that doesn’t happen every day. Some days it’s a blue one.

2. There Are Buses Available. In order to reduce the traffic on the road and free it up to make more room for areas that are coned-off for no apparent reason, you can take the bus to work. Because it’s always fun to ride in a vehicle in which the driver treats the accelerator as an on/off button, and in which anyone sitting on the upper deck is likely to experience motion sickness from the swaying as it rounds corners at improbable speeds. Not to mention the persistent nagging doubt that the bus will topple over. That’s where the real terror lies. Still, fear of death is life-affirming, so you’ll feel better as a result.

3. The Environment. Cars produce a lot of pollution*, and anyone that’s ever walked along the pavement next to a queue of traffic in the morning will be able to testify to the amount of noise-pollution that they emit. From the teenagers in the Vauxhall Corsa playing neurofunk at stomach-churning levels to the grey-faced businessmen listening to BBC Radio 4 at such a volume that, though you try not to listen, you can actually feel the shipping forecast reverberating through your skeleton as you walk past, traffic is intrusively noisy. But don’t panic. Though you may feel faint through sheer boredom on hearing the shipping forecast, it won’t actually kill you. Unless you concentrate on it quite hard.

4. The Train. You may be able to get the train to work. This will help you gain a new perspective on time and, as you realise that time, in fact, does not exist, and is just a series of made up numbers wholly unrelated to maths or the concept of measurement, you’ll relax and eventually come to enjoy starting your working day at lunchtime. Or 08:57, as First Capital Connect call it.

5. Parking Vouchers. Because you’ve paid for that parking permit, damn it. And every minute that your car is parked on the street outside your house you’re getting value for money. And eventually, if your car is parked outside your house for long enough, you’ll begin to turn a profit. Surely?

6. The Tube. Perhaps you live near an underground railway. And there’s no experience like getting together with a few thousand other people in a tin can and all trying not to look at each other (or at each other’s reflections in the window, that’s an amateur mistake). Ever wanted to know what you’d smell like if you didn’t bathe for a week? Go and stand next to a fat man in a cheap suit on a tube train. Then go home and shower. For a long time.

7. Because It’s A Good Idea. It’s actually a good idea to leave your car at home occasionally. Even if it turns out that the car is the most effective mode of transport for you, you’ll at least have explored the alternatives available. And if it isn’t, then you’ll have learned something valuable. Like discovering that bananas are easier to eat than apples, or that you enjoy eating gorgonzola more that you enjoy eating paté, or that kiwis give you more energy than a Mars bar. Or that you’re much hungrier than you thought you were.

*There are loads of car-pollution statistics available here.

September 22, 2010
7 Reasons You Should Choose Your Holiday Read Carefully

There’s so much to think about when choosing your holiday read and so much can go wrong. Here are seven reasons that you should do it carefully.

1. The Cover. People say you should never judge a book by its cover. But they do. Which is why everyone who sees your choice of book will automatically form an opinion of you. And it will probably be the wrong opinion. Take Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange for example. The Penguin Modern Classic version depicts a glass of milk. If I see someone reading a book that has a cover featuring milk I immediately think, ‘Cows. The reader likes cows’. They probably don’t. In fact, had I asked them, they would have probably shrugged with indifference. But that’s the peril of the book cover. To me, that person will always be a cow lover.

2. Trilogies. These are a big no-no. No one reads more than one book on holiday, so never start on a series that is going to take you a further two holidays to finish. By the time the second holiday comes around you’ll have forgotten what happened in the first book. This means you’ll have to read it again, only for the process to repeat itself on the next holiday. Basically, you’ll spend the rest of your life holidaying with the same book. And you’ll never find out who kills who or what the wizard said to the pixie or why the girl next door is so addicted to sex with vampires.

3. Love. Lots of people meet the love of their lives (or their night) on holiday. The last thing you need – having plucked up the courage and charmed a beautiful lady at the bar – is for her to come back to your suite and see your copy of How To Talk Women Into Bed resting on your pillow. That kind of behaviour is strictly frowned upon by the fairer sex. Apparently.

4. Language. When you take a book abroad, it’s disrespectful to your hosts to read an English translation of a book originally written in their language. In Barcelona, several people were upset to see me reading a translation of Lorca’s Yerma, but that was nothing compared to the reaction of Berliners to my English version of Mein Kampf. Never read a translated work. They were livid.

5. Practicality. The Da Vinci Code is the ideal book to take on holiday. If the weather takes a turn for the worse you can use it as kindling; if you spill your drink on the table, it’s quite absorbent; if you need to hold a door in your villa open, you can fashion a papier-mache doorstop from it; if you find that people are trying to engage you in conversation, you can pretend to read it (they’ll soon leave you alone). There’s almost nothing that this versatile book can’t be used for. Except as reading material, obviously. That would be stupid.

6. The Lord Of The Flies. If you have teenage children, do not take this book on your island-break with you. Okay, so it’s pretty unlikely that they’ll put down their iPods and PSPs for long enough to read it, but if they do, they may descend into savagery before you know it. And savages do not make relaxing holiday companions. As anyone that has vacationed in Ayia Napa will testify.

7. Airports. A copy of Frank Barnaby’s How to Build A Nuclear Bomb and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction would be a particularly poor choice of holiday read. It’s sobering, serious and thought-provoking; none of the things that are conducive to the holiday mood as you attempt to relax and get away from it all in your detention cell at Heathrow Airport.

September 8, 2010
Guest Post:7 Reasons That Travelling By Sleeper Is Great

In the final instalment of 7 Reasons Transport Week, regular guest poster Simon Best, brings a touch of old school glamour to proceedings by travelling on a sleeper train.

1 Novelty. Part of the fun of travelling by sleeper is its novelty. There are only four sleeper services in the whole of the United Kingdom, but it wouldn’t be as much fun if you did it every day. Just imagine if your daily commute involved getting a sleeper to and from work (and no falling asleep on the train from Luton to St Pancras doesn’t count). If this was the case you would, essentially, be living on a train. Now I can think of worse places to live – France, for example or Slough – but that’s irrelevant, the main point is…

2. History. Boarding a sleeper is a bit like stepping back in time; even the name sounds like something from a 1930s Agatha Christie novel and it put me in mind of WH Auden’s poem ‘The Night Mail’, with its talk of cheques and postal orders (and that even rarer object the letter). I personally haven’t received or written a cheque all year and I think the last postal order was sent in about 1973. There is no longer a night mail train; now your Amazon orders or the clock you bought on Ebay are delivered by plane. The sleeper is still running. Travelling by sleeper is great because it is historic.

3. VIP Treatment. Normally catching a train is a stressful business. You have to wait on the concourse until the platform is announced – usually two minutes before you’re due to leave – and then it’s changed two minutes after you should have left causing you to either: a) miss the train b) knock an old lady over with your briefcase or c) strain a muscle hurling your suitcase into your carriage. This is not the case with the sleeper. It is always in the station an hour before it is due to leave. You’re greeted by your sleeping car attendant, welcomed by name when you show your ticket (you don’t get that on the 7:42 to Charing Cross do you?), you’re asked what you’d like for breakfast, when you’d like it, and shown to your cabin. In short, you’re treated like Michael Winner being escorted to the first class cabin on Concorde. Travelling by sleeper is great because you’re given VIP treatment.

4. Your Cabin. Once on board you make your way to your cabin, stow your luggage (there is no other train in the world on which you ‘stow’ your luggage you just stick it in a luggage rack and hope someone doesn’t put a huge suitcase on the top). You then proceed to play with all the gadgets, play around with the bed, open the little shelf next to the bunk, climb up to the top bunk and sit there, lift the cover to the wash basin, press the taps, open the blind, and close it again. Twice. Turn the three different lights on and off several times and adjust the temperature slider seeing just how hot or cold you can make it and like the controls on a shower then spend ten minutes getting it just right, which is invariably the setting it was on to start with. Travelling by sleeper is great because your cabin has more gadgets than the TARDIS.

5. The Lounge Car. Once you’ve become bored fiddling with the temperature and switching the light on and off, you’ll doubtless leave your cabin and stroll down the train to the lounge car. Here you can relax on a sofa and order a gin and tonic from the bar (well that’s what I’m having, what would you like to drink?). The lounge car even stays open all night but you can only get booze until one am because, as the stewardess said, “this is a train, nae a nightclub” (who would want a nightclub on wheels anyway). On American sleeper trains lounge cars even have observation decks, with clear roofs so that you can look out at the scenery as you travel along. They also go one stage further and provide actual in-train entertainment, showing films. I was once stuck on a non-moving train in the middle of the desert in Texas. When we’d been staring at the desert for three hours I got quite excited at the announcement that they were showing a film. They showed My Dog Skip. I should have kept staring at the desert. However the actual film is irrelevant. Travelling by sleeper is great because there is a lounge car.

6. Breakfast. Having chosen your morning beverage, ordered your breakfast and arranged your wake-up call when you board the train, you’re gently roused by the sleeping car attendant at the appointed time, with your breakfast which you can then eat in bed while the train rolls sedately through the countryside. Just be careful not to flash your nightwear at a flock of sheep. I love having breakfast in bed, except for the crumbs that you have to clear up afterwards. Travelling by sleeper is great because you get breakfast in bed with a view, and you don’t have to clear up afterwards.

7. Efficiency. We all like things that save us time. Think of all the labour saving devices we have in our homes: washing machines, computers, vacuum cleaners, electric carving knives (actually forget that last one). The sleeper allows you to go to bed in London and wake up next to Ben Nevis (or if you’re feeling more adventurous go to bed in Berlin and wake up in Warsaw). This makes it one of the most efficient modes of transport, as it allows you to travel a long distance and sleep at the same time. Something that is not advised if you’re driving a car or riding a bike.

August 21, 2010
7 Reasons Not To Write On The Train

As a part of 7 Reasons Travel Week, we have decided to try something new. Rather than writing this piece in a conventional location; a quiet atmosphere of consideration and reflection – or in the pub – it’s going to be written on the train during a journey from York to Kings Cross. We like to think of it as a bold experiment into guerrilla style blogging, because that sounds more interesting than a man typing on a train. Anyway, the guard has blown his whistle (or I’m having another acid house flashback) and we’re off. Here are seven reasons not to write on the train.

Space…The Lack Of

1. It’s Tight. No, not my prose style, my deadline – or even my trousers – I’m referring to the amount of room that I have at the moment. I’m 6’2”. The tiny seat that I am crammed into has sufficient legroom for an eight year old child (a small one). My back is planted firmly into the back of my seat and my knees are jammed right up against the hard back of the seat in front of me, just under the “table”. I’ve only been seated for ten minutes and I’m already in pain. Balanced on the teeny-weeny-tiny “table” in front of me is my very small netbook, a bottle of water, a pen, a notebook with a picture of a skateboarder on it (how cool am I?) and a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses aren’t meant to be on the “table”, they just keep being shaken from their resting place on top of my head. They – for some reason – always land on the f key. Anyway, ocular accoutrements aside, it is all essential writing gear on the “table” (well, I say on the “table”, I keep having to retrieve a lot of it from the floor). This is because of…

2. The Shaking. The shaking of the train is making typing difficult, to say the least. It causes me to accidentally touch the trackpad quite a lot, which makes the text I am typing suddenly begin to appear in the middle of a line I don’t want it to be on. So if what you’re reading seems somewhat confused and incoherent, it’s because of the shaking and not, as is usually the case, because I’m confused and incoherent. Jfmklsdjlggfkgnfk;gnf.g (My apologies, that was my bottle of water leaping from the table and landing on the keyboard. That happens quite frequently).

My webcam captures the moment the flying bottle makes another guest appearance

3. The Mysterious Burning Smell. Oh yes, we have one of those. It smells like an electrical fire. I first noticed it shortly before the train ground to a halt in the middle of the countryside near Leeds. Am I about to die in an inferno? Where is the nearest door? Why don’t the hammers next to the windows resemble hammers? Is that a field full of cows that we’ll have to escape into? Why didn’t I finish that packet of Hob-Nobs before we left the house? I’m beginning to realise that my imminent death isn’t conducive to concentration.

4. The “WiFi”. The East Coast Mainline WiFi network is slower than the train itself. In fact, it’s slower than me alighting from the train, going to the pub for a bit, growing a beard, taking a course in both basic and advanced basket-weaving, and then walking to Google’s office in California to get a printout of the web page that I now wish to view. I keep checking back every five minutes or so, to see if my web page has loaded but no, it hasn’t. And I may need to read that page on how to avoid being eaten by a cow as a matter of some urgency.

5. The Woman Next To Me. The woman sitting next to me, despite being approximately a foot shorter than I am, keeps complaining about the lack of legroom. She also keeps staring at my screen, which is very off-putting. She continually encroaches into my armrest territory, and when the train jars or shakes, her pointy elbow digs into my left arm and my ribs. It serves me right for marrying a woman with sharp elbows, I suppose. The woman next to me is now pulling a face.

6. Announcements. I’m being annoyed by the PA system and it’s causing me to become distracted and lurch into epistolary instead of writing properly.

Dear PA System,

I have heard the announcements now, and I understand them, thank you. I couldn’t be more aware of the location of the buffet car, the name of the train manager, or the myriad ticket restrictions that apply to my journey. I have now decided, as a consequence of the many announcements I have heard, that I will be taking my personal belongings with me when I leave the train. Obviously, without your help, I would have abandoned all of my stuff and wandered off the train naked to begin a new life unencumbered by material possessions and socks. Thank you very much for sparing me from this alternate and possibly quite chilly future. Yours sincerely,

Passenger 12 (facing). Coach C.

7. The Time. We’ve been on the train for two hours and we’re arriving at King’s Cross already. That’s not enough time to write anything. Where’s my delay? Bastards!

August 20, 2010
7 Reasons You Should Never Go To Wimbledon With Me

The following is based on a true story. Sadly.

It Looks Like Rain

1. Rain. That’s what you’ll see when you wake up. Loads of it. ‘Bloody typical,’ you will say, ‘every day at Wimbledon has been hot and sunny this year. Except today. When the roads are flooding’. You’ll then have to decide what clothes to wear. Which is never an easy thing to do. Skirt or trousers. Shoes or flip-flops. Bra or no bra. Okay, the last one was me. And I went bra-less. Once decided, we’ll then make our way to the station where we find the…

2. Car Park is packed. Not a space to be seen. We’ll leave the station car park and I will make you drive to all the places in the village that require permits to park. You don’t have a permit. I shall then helpfully ask if you’d ‘just like to go home’. You don’t. You have taken a days holiday for this. You suggest we go to another station where car parking exists. I agree. But on the way, we quickly check our car park of choice again. I step up to the plate and spy a space. You have to circumnavigate a bus and do manoeuvres that make a Rubik cube look simple, but you get in there. Sadly, by the time we have disembarked via the sunroof* we have…

3. Missed The Train. We have thirty minutes until the next one, but don’t think you are going to be getting bored because now you are going to use your female charms** and get the nice man at the ticket kiosk to find us the cheapest route to London. He needs to take into account that we have one Network Railcard that comes into use at 10am. It is now 9:15am. The train leaves at 9:36am. It’s a problem that makes him wish he had a Maths GCSE. He succeeds though and the rest of the journey to Wimbledon goes without hiccup. Well, actually, it turns out to be very pleasant indeed. I teach you how to do a suduko and you teach me that I shouldn’t make comments about pictures of women in bikinis. Sadly this is where it goes horribly wrong again. Once inside the All England Club, we will discover that we are too late to get on Court 12 where we would have been able to watch Laura Robson and then Monsour Bahrami and Henri Laconte. Disappointed, I will try and cheer you up by buying you a…

4. Hot Dog. Though it had another fancy name that I can no longer remember. But it was a hot dog. A sausage in a roll. That’s a hot dog. Unless it’s a sausage roll. But this wasn’t. It was a hot dog. And I’ve just bought you one. And I’ve bought myself one. We shall walk away towards the ketchup. Here, I shall ask you where my hot dog is. You say you don’t know. I’ve left it behind haven’t I? Yes, I have. I walk back to the hot dog vendor and as casual as it is possible to say, I say, ‘I seem to have forgotten my hot dog’. I feel a bit stupid. You feel a bit stupid about being at Wimbledon with someone so stupid. The sun has come out though, so we go off to…

5. Court 5. Here I shall select the seats furthest away from the action. Thankfully, you have a bit more common sense than I do, so after we’ve seen the British Junior – Oliver Golding – win, we move to a better location. Here we watch another British Junior – Eleanor Dean – win. Then comes the match we came to this court to see. Greg Rusedski and Todd Martin against Jonas Bjorkman and Tood Woodbridge. Greg Rusedski injures his quad and at 5-0 in the first set, the match is over. I am beginning to think that there is going to be a 7 Reasons piece in this. You are beginning to think you should never have come to Wimbledon with me. Later, you advance towards jazz music and the champagne bar. I follow you with my…

6. Tea and Bourbon Biscuits. I don’t get hints. You realise I don’t get hints – either that or I am not prepared to pay £117 for Champagne when I have – just two hours previously – splashed out £3.30 on a pathetically small ice cream for you. We leave. Ninety-minutes later we are back in the…

7. Car Park. There are only four cars left, but, unsurprisingly, given that I am with you, your car is still boxed in. You climb over the bonnet and in through the sunroof and I direct you through a 27-point turn to get out of the space. You are now in touching distance of home. Nothing else can possibly go wrong.***

*Might be a slight exaggeration, but you definitely do not get out of your door.

**This won’t work if you’re a man.

***Until I start singing ‘I’m Coming Out’ by Diana Ross. All because you told me Spain and Portugal were coming out after half-time.

June 30, 2010
7 Reasons It’s Awkward Travelling On The Train (With A Strange Man)

1. It’s Monday morning and I am on the train to London. It’s after 9.00am so the train is fairly empty. I have a a block of six seats to myself. We pull into Maidstone East. A man gets on. He could sit anywhere. But he doesn’t. He sits opposite me, one seat across. Why? Why did he do this? But worse is to follow. He says, ‘Good Morning’. I feel awkward. I know shouldn’t. I know I should just be able to say ‘Good Morning’ back, but it feels strange. A stranger saying good morning to me on a train. I mumble a ‘Hi’ back, feel a bit embarrassed and go back to my book.

2. It’s no more than five minutes later. I am reading, but I can sense the man is looking at me. I feel awkward. I raise my head. Sure enough he is looking at me. He sees my attention on the book has lapsed and takes his chance. ‘Good book?’ he says. ‘So far, it’s very interesting,’ I reply. We spend the next five minutes talking about Harold Larwood. (I am reading his biography). I say we talk about Harold Larwood. He does most of the talking. I pretend to look interested.

3. There is a lull in what was never a flowing conversation. I feel awkward. Is now the time I go back to my book? Or is that deemed rude? Am I now supposed to talk to this man all the way to London Victoria? The man looks towards the window. I see this as the opportunity I have been waiting for. I turn back to my book. And I vow not to look up again.

4. We arrive at London Victoria forty minutes later. We haven’t spoken in that time. I stand up and grab my bag from the rack. The man is still sitting there. What is he waiting for? I feel awkward. What do I do? Am I required to say goodbye? I think about it. In fact I am sure I am about to say it. But I don’t. I just look at him. And half-smile. And half-nod. And half-walk off the train. The other half ran.

5. I’m waiting on the platform for a Wimbledon bound District Line train. Suddenly, from behind a bloke who is no doubt sponsored by Pukka Pies, appears someone I recognise. It’s the man again. And he’s seen me. I feel awkward. Now what do I do? I didn’t say goodbye. Surely that means I don’t say hello. But we can’t just stand next to each other and pretend we are just two people who have never seen each other before. That would be awkward. He’s getting closer. But here comes the train! I feel less awkward. I get on the train. I sit down. The man sits opposite me. I feel awkward.

6. My stop is next. Parsons Green. Surely this man isn’t going to get off here. We have spent twenty minutes not talking to each other. But I haven’t been reading. I have mainly been looking out of the window. But the window is behind the man. So occasionally I’ve caught his eye-line. And I’ve felt awkward. What should I have done? Is he thinking the same as me? Or have I hurt his feelings? Have I made him think he’s boring? Parsons Green arrives. The doors open. I stand up, turn left and alight. I walk down the platform. I dare not look back. I know, I just know, that if I do, he’ll be there. I walk home and never look back.

7. I’m in the kitchen. I’ve just flicked the kettle on. I decide there is probably a 7 Reasons post in this. Something about feeling awkward on the train. I get my notepad out and start scribbling down what happened. I get six reasons done and re-read them. As I read it, I feel awkward. I feel awkward about feeling awkward. I also feel very silly.

June 16, 2010
7 Reasons That Time Zones Are Confusing

The way we measure and calculate time is a wholly abstract construct that is often difficult to grasp. And then, when we split it into zones – that are also abstract – it becomes very confusing indeed. Here are seven reasons why.

1. South Africa. I’m not a geographical expert, but I have rough grasp of the map of the world and how it relates to me. I’m in England; I know that South Africa is approximately 5,500 miles away from me. I also know that France is 21 miles away from England. But it’s exactly the same time in France right now as it is in South Africa. This means that when it’s lunchtime in Cape Town, it’s lunchtime in Paris, and when it’s teatime in Cape Town, it’s lunchtime in Paris. But they’re so far away from each other!

2. The Moon. The moon has a time zone of its own, Lunar Standard Time. Today’s date on the moon is 42-12-21. So if I go to the moon, I’ll probably need a separate moon calendar, and perhaps a moon watch, though I’m not certain about that. What I do know is that the time (and date) on the moon bear no relation to the time and date on Earth, or even in Paris, where it’s still lunchtime.

3. The North Pole. There isn’t a time at the North Pole. The moon has a time, but the North Pole doesn’t. The reason the North Pole doesn’t have a time zone is because there’s no permanent human presence at the North Pole – which makes me wonder if there’s something that we’re not being told about the moon? If you go to the North Pole, you can just choose (arbitrarily) to be in whichever time zone you like. This means that you can be in a totally different time zone to the person standing next to you and the same time zone as someone standing inside Starbucks in Croydon. Or Johannesburg. Or any Starbucks you like.

4. The South Pole. The South Pole is on New Zealand time, despite being a long way from it. This is because most of the things that the polar bases consume are imported from New Zealand. But in Britain, most of the goods we consume come from China, though we’re not on Chinese time (yet). This is good as their next New Year is in February, and my New Year guests arrive in December, and there’s only so much of me they can take.

The International Date Line

5. The International Date Line. You may have already noticed that it’s not straight. This means that if you travel sort of North-Eastish, by sea, from New Zealand, the date may change several times on the way. The date line isn’t a time zone though, so when the date changes, the time doesn’t. So you know it’s 2pm, because that’s what your watch tells you, but you don’t know if it’s today, yesterday, tomorrow or Thursday – which must make arranging shipboard entertainments damn nigh impossible. And what if one of the days is your birthday? If you’ve worked on a sort of North-Eastish-sailing ship from New Zealand for a few years, you could end up having your fifty-ninth birthday at the age of twenty-seven. And then your presents would be inappropriate. What twenty-seven year old wants a subscription to the Radio Times and a pair of Totes Toasties for their birthday?

6. Trains. The Indian Pacific train in Australia has its own time zone. On its journey between Kalgoorlie and Kalgoorlie the time on the train bears absolutely no relation to the time zone that the train is in. This is because it crosses several time zones (including a weird one that changes in half hour increments). I find this confusing, but compared to British trains – which also seem to operate in their own time zone, one that bears no relation to either the time outside the train or the published timetable – it seems quite straightforward.

7. Greenwich. Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) is the time zone of zero degrees longitude. Greenwich is in London. London switches to Summer Time (BST) during the summer months. This means that London is an hour ahead of Greenwich in the summer. But, as Greenwich is in London, Greenwich is also an hour ahead of itself. This makes my head hurt. But if anyone can think of a way in which I can exploit this to plan a heist or win the lottery, please let me know.

April 12, 2010