Sleepless In Reading

Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it? But I'm jet-lagged again.

(and Marilisa's snoring, but she'd kill me if I told you that.)

Making Myself Heard

I don't get this. I'm supposed to be in an English speaking country. I tried to book a cab yesterday:

I dial the number; the phone rings.
"Eastside Town Cars."
"Hello, I'd like to book a taxi, please."
Silence.
"Hello? I'd like to book a taxi."
"You wanna speak ta who?"
"Er, no, I'd like to book a taxi."
He hangs up. I decide to give the hotel reception a try instead.
"Hi, can you call me a cab, please?"
"Sure. What time would you like it?"
"Quarter past eight."
Vacant stare.
"Quarter past eight, please."
"Er, what time would you like me to book the cab for?"
"Quarter. Past. Eight."
"Tell, you what - there's a cab right here, why don't you just take that?"
I resignedly get in the cab, even though it means I will arrive half an hour early at my destination. I decide there's little point in talking so I hand the guy a map of where I want to go. He looks at it like I've just passed him my stool sample, then looks back at me.
"So where da ya wanna go, then?"

I give up.

Sleepless In Seattle

4am. I've been up for an hour. Jetlag is a bastard.

I went for a walk around town yesterday to try and tire myself out. I was pretty spaced out already, so it didn't help that the town centre looked like a film set, with big, brightly coloured shops with made up names like Wetzel Pretzel and Schmizza Pizza (and yes, I know every name was made up at some point, but you know what I mean).

One thing that is very real though is the food. I went to a diner yesterday where they had bottomless fries. What a concept. I think it would be a little dangerous to bring Mari here, who will eat everything you put on her plate - I don't think she'd stop downing the chips until she exploded - Mr. Creosote-style.

Anyway, must sleep. Sleeeeeeeeeeeep....

Another Blog Entry, Another New Continent

Yes, I'm abroad again. My new employer has been kind enough to ship me off to the States for some much needed training, so for the next week I'm hotel bound in sweaty Seattle (not sweaty in the Florida sense - sweaty in the Thames Valley "it's a bit muggy and I've bloody overdone it with the clothing again" sense).

My flight was exciting for two reasons (let it be known that I'm actually terrified of flying) - firstly it was a Jumbo, and I've never been on one before. I still don't believe that anything of that size and weight can get off the ground, so I suspect that they just rolled some footage of clouds past my window for nine hours, and I'm actually now residing somewhere near Milton Keynes. Secondly, BA upgraded me to World Traveller Plus, which meant that I got my own seat, and didn't have to share it with 11 obese Americans and a wailing child. It was very cool.

Customs was interesting. I usually get nervous when I pass the guys with guns in an airport, but this was nothing in comparison to how jittery I felt when I passed the guy with the rubber gloves. And all he wanted to do was check my immigration card. Why the hell do you need rubber gloves to check an immigration card? I swear they do it to shit you up. I was then given my baggage, which was then taken back off me and thrown down a black hole, while I was thrown on a train. The announcer on the train then said "Everyone for zones A, B, C and N depart now. Those wanting connections to zone J should go via N then C. Those wanting connecions to A should go through N then C via B. Anyone looking vaugely confused or disorientated will be subjected to a rectal cavity search. Have a nice day." I looked at my ticket. Zone S. I frightenedly followed everyone else off the train. As luck would have it, my bag miraculously appeared from another hole in the floor and I escaped in a taxi.

So here I am in my hotel room (with wireless connection! Woohoo!). It's just about dinner time but my body says it's 3am. So I'm going to bed. Goodnight folks.

Genesis

I started my new job on Monday, and the lack of anything blog-related in the past few days is due in no small part to the lack of anything computer-shaped on my desk. In fact, in the past three days I have done little more than play games on the office console (we have two of them, and 32” LCD TVs on the desks – I love this place already). I was actually given a laptop today, but a delay in getting my email alias sorted out has meant I will probably have nothing to do for the rest of the week. Lara Croft and I are becoming very well acquainted.

In other news, I have just watched the Champions League final. Bastard.

Bastard
Bastard
Bastard
Bastard
Bastard.

Bastard.

More On Magaluf

I had a couple of comments yesterday suggesting that I’d made Magaluf up. I seriously wish I had. But then all the burglars and muggers would have nowhere to go on holiday. For those of you who don’t know it – try to imagine all that is bad about Britain, then shovel it up in a giant pooper scooper and dump it on an unsuspecting Spanish island. Rows and rows of British cafes, British pubs and British louts having British fights – the only reason that the Spanish put up with it is because there’s none of them there. Seriously. I don’t think I saw one Spaniard the entire time I was there. They’d all gone on holiday to Luton.

Fortunately for us (the law-abiding, morally upstanding types of lout), high season hadn’t yet hit and the area was reasonably trouble free. On the day that we left, a party of 120 lads from Manchester turned up at our hotel. Our rep told us that several days later, a party of 100 Leeds boys would also be arriving. Glassing, anyone?

A Week Goes Missing

The Take That reunion quickly descended into chaos

Don’t worry, I’m not dead. Technically. I’ve spent the last four days on a stag do in Magaluf, so I’m just coming to terms with reality again. Briefly, the highlights:

2hrs in: The transfer coach breaks down.

12hrs in: We are given enough free booze to kill a rhino. Anarchy ensues.

24hrs in: The stag gets food poisoning and spends the rest of the trip turning himself inside out.

36hrs in: I get lost and spend three hours walking aimlessly around the island.

48hrs in: I lose control of my legs and spend the next 12hrs lying on my face.

60hrs in: Honestly, I have no idea.

Magaluf’s lovely though. I expect.