The Westbrook Pages

I was asked by a native today why baby Geese are called goslings.

Speculating, I invoked analogy with 'duck' and 'duckling' cf. 'goose' and 'gosling', before adding a smattering of guesswork around pronunciation migration and contraction.

This was met by a look a faint bewilderment and the words, "what do you mean by 'Goose'?"

Unusual question, I thought.

After several failed attempts to uncover the root of the enquiry, it became clear that for many Minnesotans the singular of 'geese' is, ahem, 'geese'.

For example, "Hey, Chuck, look at that geese!", or "A Canada geese crapped on my SUV".

'Goose' being reserved for a brand of French vodka.

Perhaps, out here, 'goose' is considered French for 'geese'?

Upon further investigation, the common term for a goose appears for many here to be "grey duck".

If I recall, the French for lime translates as "green lemon". There's a cocktail joke in here somewhere but I'm not sure I've the energy to pursue it.

This is what I learned today about the country I now call home: First, one in four American teenagers has a sexually transmitted disease.

And then...

One in four American schools has abandoned sex education in favour of promoting sexual abstinence.

Erm... coincidence?

Let’s look at that again: Twenty-five percent of all American young adults are not currently taught in school on topics such as birth control, condom use, sexual disease transmission, dangers to fertility or even of the havoc wreaked by Aids. No. Much better to rely (AND spend tax payers' hard-earned cash) on teaching kids that extramarital shagging is really, really naughty.

WTF were these septics thinking?!

It’s been difficult enough getting used to a country where declaring atheism is akin to declaring a lifetime of indiscriminate infanticide, and where it required a ruling from the supreme court to prevent bible bigots from teaching creation as fact in science classes, not to mention where the president openly confesses to being guided by god… when going to war.

All that was a little weird, but the biscuit was definitely taken by this week’s learning that 1.5 billion federal tax dollars were spent telling teenagers to look but not touch, instead of equipping them to avoid pox and premature pram attachment.

I should point out that 17 of 50 states decided that taking part in this initiative would have raised a big "I'm a fuckwit" flag over the governor’s mansion. Realising how this might look, they opted out. Makes you wonder about the others – do they not remember being a teenager?

I remember … the school was over run with beautiful young things discovering how delicious they suddenly looked to one another, all among the crashing waves of an unfamiliar hormonal ocean.

Yeah, abstinence. That’ll work.

There are other threads worth pursuing here. Right now, the U.S. economy is in melt down because banks lent money to people who couldn’t afford to pay the money back.

Clever.

Discounting the idiocy of the banks, the borrowers themselves were taking money for homes that simple mathematics would have shown that they could afford. It’s not even a gamble… make this decision and your family will end up out on the curb. “Um… let me think. Um… thinking hurts. Hell, just sign me up bud.”

Aside from these sub-primates, there are also the equity dunderheads who traded ownership they’d built up in homes for sensible purchases like new cars.

When you look around, you have to ask, do we really want to risk avoidable breeding?

Abstinence is alive and well, but it's from financial reality and sensible government, not from extracurricular biology.

I've now been living in the United States since the middle of September. While I’m acclimatising well, my boss likes to rib me about my still-imperfect British English filter which frequently allows slips like programme, colour, and analyse. Other colleagues marvel as they collect new British phrases. I recognise the signs of an imminent new entry in a co-worker's lexicon…

• head cocked a little to one side
• mouth ever so slightly agape
• eyes just fractionally narrowing

Yes, these are the symptoms of whadahesay. A condition that inevitably precedes the mental unpicking of what I might have said and what it almost certainly means.

Yesterday's was a plan that I felt was a "pig's breakfast'. This morning I applauded what I believed to be the "fighting dog's bollocks". Only last week I confounded a roomful by expressing my preference for a sandwich filled with tuna. This, it appears, needs to be pronounced "too-na". Any amount of deliberate enunciation of 'chu-na" will get you nowhere. And it certainly won’t get you your sandwich.

NB Pronunciation is something of which, for now at least, I'm going to steer clear, apart from to say never has a neutral vowel been so disregarded, and that Bernard Shaw would be delighted.

To help penetrate the local thinking and speaking, I decided to break it down into chunks, starting with… the weather.

It's worse than being in Britain. Minnesotans are obsessed with the weather. Whereas at home it's just a polite ice breaker, here, they're almost passionate! They do have some excuse in as much as they do actually have weather.

Instead of an infinite variety of damp grays punctuated by refugee sunshine, they have it a little bigger. A week no warmer than -20 ° C with almost solid bright sunshine, 60 mph gusts and two six-inch snowfalls would be considered routine.

This morning, the temperature gauge informed me that it was -26 ° C outside. That's just weird. What is civilization doing in a place that considers normal an ambient outside temperature cold enough to deep freeze a beef carcass in under an hour?

Of course they all speak weather in American, the primary plank of which is Fahrenheit. Can anyone tell me what Herr Fahrenheit was smoking?

I've been advised that he planned to use the coldest thing he could find as a reference point for zero, the Baltic sea according to one legend, and then set human body temperature at 100. How elegant he must have thought. But then they decided to change the zero reference value, but kept the previously calculated boiling point of water at 212. This shuffled human body temperature down to 96. Nice, he must have thought.

If he did, it must have been the Dutch in him. The German must have been screaming for a return to order!

So there we have it. Water freezes at 32° not at zero. Water boils at 212° not at 100. There are 18 degrees for each of our ten, a warm house is in the low 70s not the low 20s, a hot day is in the 80s not the high 20s.

For simple reference, and self-instruction I constructed a chart:

Global temperature translated into American

°C °F Effect

100 212 Boiling water

95 203

90 194

85 185 Pre-lawsuit McDonald's coffee

80 176 Boiling point of alcohol

75 167 Water causes third degree burns with one second

70 158 Bare metal burns skin within one second

65 149

60 140 Home-brewed coffee

55 131

50 122

45 113

40 104 Hot day in Baghdad

35 95 Hot day in Athens

30 86 Hot day in Paris

25 77 Hot day in London

20 68 Comfortable house

15 59 Wine cellar

10 50 Too cold to be outside in a shirt

5 41 The inside of a domestic refrigerator

0 32 Freezing point of water

-5 23 A cool bar in Sydney, NSW ('minus five' – very cool)

-10 14 Need a very warm jacket

-15 5 Need warm jacket, gloves and a hat

-20 -4 The inside of a domestic freezer

-25 -13

-30 -22 Risk of frostbite begins

-35 -31 Temperature outside at 30,000 feet

-40 -40

-45 -49

-50 -58

-55 -67 Freeze spray

-60 -76

-65 -85

-70 -94

-75 -103

-80 -112 Dry ice

-85 -121

-90 -130

-95 -139

-100 -148 Minnesota

Over a month of being here now. A lot that is noteworthy has happened, but today was particularly odd.

I find myself mystified (again) at the locals, who today mostly turned up wearing orange and black. Perhaps some weird Mid-western sect of hornet worshipers or an enclave of Wolves fans?

No, apparently this most God-fearing of gospelemic nations is today decked-out in celebration of Halloween.

And this is a nation where complaints over the unholiness of Harry Potter made headlines?

Given that this evening will see the streets over-run with packs of sugar-crazed Harry Potter extras, I'm beginning to understand why guns are legal.

I’ve now been a resident of the US for a fraction under 24 hours. When I imagined relocating, a significant amount of the preparation time was going to be spent ensuring that the essentials were in place for an Englishman abroad:

• Tetley teabags – one year’s supply
• Marmite – a dozen large jars
• Colman’s mustard – six boxes of powder, six large pots of spread

You get the picture.

Little had I foreseen just how much of my final two weeks in the UK would actually be spent finishing off at work. Not only did this leave me without the above relocation-requisite items, it also left me short of…

• Royal mail redirection established and tested
• US bank accounts opened and in receipt of deposits
• A clue as to what was going by air, by sea or in storage when the packers arrived a few days ago
• My Nespresso life-support system

I’d also planned on spending my last 14 nights of European living in my own flat, and with my own hot water. This plan was shot through comprehensively by pesky reality with the adroit assistance of plumbers.

The consequences of these ill estimations were varied and well captured by the time-honoured parental euphemism, character-building.

Clearly I was going to be at the top of my game when the new job started with all the super-executives in Minnesotapolis.

Close to the bottom of the French National Downhill course is a gap jump. Tim clears the gap, but then buries himself in the landing. Good effort, although none of the rest of us fancied it much after his dismount.

No, to go flying he needed just gravity, skis and a disregard for personal safety...

Cigarettes might kill you, but they’d struggle to break your shoulder. For that you need a whole new habit.

Try downhill mountain biking.

I didn’t realise I was an addict, then I looked back and saw that all the signs were there:

- It costs me too much
- I hang around with other addicts
- To me they seem normal
- I don’t see what’s funny about a subscription to “Dirt!” magazine
- I disregard the side effects of my addiction as trivial
- Even when these side effects put me in hospital

It’s definitely an addiction.

The problem is, when I started it was like gentle home-grown grass. Things have changed. Now, it’s like genetically altered skunk.

When I was 14, mountain bikes, if ridden into roadside curbs, would crumple like wet cardboard. They were normal bikes, but with fat tyres. They were good fun but unlikely to get you into too much trouble.

Mountain biking for its early life was normal cycling but with added mud. Not so much mountain biking, more covered-in-crap biking. I had to wait until my 30s before the “mountain” bit was properly justified. It was worth the wait. It’s brilliant.

The bikes are amazing; they’re like motor cross bikes without engines. The trails are fantastic, and gone are the lycra, the clippie pedals and the bright poncy helmets. It’s a whole new era of speed, helidrops, shocks, disc brakes, body armour and a complete disregard for saving weight. This means you get to ride them a bit like you ride snowboards: fast, off cliffs and generally with the assistance of chairlifts. They are also more than equipped to get you into lot and lots of trouble.

Doing this aged 14 would be fine: Break a few bones. Mend quickly. Get back out on the bike. Be fairly accomplished, even a little wise, by the time you hit your 30s.

If you try to cram all that experience into half a decade though, you soon learn that what now crumples like wet cardboard… is you.

There’s a lump of bone in the photograph that’s floating on its own. This is bad. It should be attached to the jaggedy stumpy bit of bone that it’s floating beneath. Together they make a shoulder blade. Turns out that attempting to plough a French Alp with your right shoulder after an unplanned, high-speed dismount is stupid and painful.

I executed this ground-assisted stop on a Saturday – a day when the local Les Gets GP surgery was closed. So in an ambulance I was shipped to the nearest town. The facilities were fantastic, but the doctor was only interested in making sure I’d not damaged the joint. He took a bunch of x-rays (of the joint), told me I’d not broken anything – gave me pain killers and said that I’d need to come back if, once the swelling had gone down, I couldn’t move my arm above my head.

Turns out, that with rest, care and pain killers that I could not only lift my arm over my head, I could just about ride the bike. It was July, the sun was out, the lifts were running and there was a mountain to play with….

Clever addict.

Naturally I picked up the odd knock here and there, but knowing that the bones and ligaments were largely OK – I felt reasonably comfortable. An interesting conclusion given how much I don’t know about shoulders, bones and ligaments.

Then reality caught up. Pain. A kind of can’t-sleep-can’t move-can’t-keep-still, feels-like-I’m-constantly-being-stabbed-with-a-pointy-rusty-shard pain.

Tim and Andy carefully hauled me to see the local GP. How I wished I’d had the foresight to injure myself on a week day in the first place! You know that you’re in a mountain resort when the local GP surgery has four beautifully-equipped x-ray suites. The feeling of being surrounded by experts was certainly comforting.

It was less comforting to hear the barely disguised glee in my doctor’s voice as he rushed in with the x-ray films explaining, “Big, big, break, Monsieur. Snap! Very rare.”

He then proceeded to talk me through the above picture, and explain the surgery that would be necessary upon my return to England. He really was quite excited.

So no more riding. Just morphine, beer, world cup football and then the puzzle of how I was going to drive myself home to London at the end of the week.

I have now had it plated together. I’ve a fine scar, a good record of attendance at physio, and the staff at my gym came to recognise me again. I was lucky, it all mended perfectly. I was even able to take the week’s downhill riding in Whistler we already had booked for the October – was a cautious week but shoulder held out.

I’m off to Les Gets again in June, and Whistler again in August. And I’m considering a bigger, fatter downhill bike. I even have friends that I no longer recognise unless they’re wearing a full-face helmet.

Like I said, genetically altered skunk.

Calling all lovers of middle-brow, blinkered news distortion - go to this site immeditately. If you've been away from bigotry for longer than is comfortable, you no longer have to find a news stand and a copy of the Daily Mail. Just log on and have Daily Mail headlines generated for you at the click of a button...

WILL GREENPEACE ROB THE MIDDLE CLASS BLIND?

COULD GYPSIES IMPREGNATE THE ELDERLY?

WILL THE UNEMPLOYED RIP OFF HOMEOWNERS?

What relief this will provide those who have not had their daily fix of smug self delusion.

With thanks to Chris Applegate for devising this illuminating toy, and to Dave for bringing it to my attention.

If I've not previously mentioned this, I'm not a fan of the Daily Mail. Essentially, it's read by an undemanding audience that rather wished the world was the way they'd like it to be as opposed to the way it actually is. A charming bunch of people, all revelling in their mediocrity. You can spot them....

They don't like diversity.
They like segregation.
They're keen on liberty.
But not if it upsets their routine.
They do like opportunity.
But only the kind you pay for.
They largely believe that Maggie was the best thing that happened to the UK in the last 30 years, and they will almost certainly oppose the law to prohibit marriage among first cousins.

They will, I suspect, struggle to count their own toes accurately when to them the biological consequences of such unions are explained.

You get the picture.

So, I generally take the line that if the DM supports it, it must be quite awful. Try it, you'll find it works.

Currently, Dacre Mindlessness is championing the Tory-led opposition of licensing law relaxation. Ergo... licensing law relaxation must be a good thing.

It actually doesn't take a great deal of thought to arrive at this conclusion without the DM, but I was sufficiently concerned by the errant ponderings of a colleague today, I feel the need to lay this out.

Q) Have we any example from history of licensing restriction having an effect upon society, particularly with regard to alcohol consumption, health and crime?

A) Yes. 1930s Chicago. Al Capone. Speakeasy. Massacre. Civil disobedience. Smuggling. Moonshining. Death. Murder. Theft. Damage. Lovely. Although the cast of the untouchables looked great in their Armani suits.

Q) Does the majority of the clientele of out country's bars and pubs routinely get so drunk that they puke, fight, collapse and fuck on the streets?

A) No, amazingly we're rather free of such anarchy. The vast majority enjoy a drink. Occasionally they enjoy too many, but the vast majority get up in the morning. They go to work. They don't fight. They don't puke. They don't go home via the hospital. They don't queue at Boots the following morning for a dunce pill, and half of them only occasional pee where they shouldn't.

Q) Is a law that penalises the vast majority because of the prejudices of the Daily Mail reader a fair law?

A) No



Drunken behaviour is a blight inflicted upon us by a minority (I wonder how many are the progeny of DM readers). Their problems are not associated with the distribution, price or supply of alcohol. If I could buy six cans of Special Brew when I was 16 from the local off licence, then I'm sure the average belligerent 20-something idiot desiring a skin full will satiate his or her desire with ease, regardless of whether or not the bar is open to sense, or at hours that even prudish the US 'Jesus Land' of A would consider prehistoric.

That the roaring Tory drunks of Westminster are taking with the morons is only a sickening indication of how desperate they are for a dying, blue-rinsed electorate.

Cheers.

This rant was brought to you by a desire for a single pint of Timothy Taylor's in the King's Head at 2255 on a Tuesday.

What an enlightening snippet of news... In today's Times (p9) there a nib
entitled "Tagging ruling."

Apparently a young lady (obviously no chavette) managed to pursuade
magistrates not to force her to wear an electronic tag "because it would
clash with her skirts."

What?!

Oh, yes. Sorry officer, thank you for arresting me, I'm guilty as hell but
I'll not be going to jail as my preferred brand of nail polish is difficult
to acquire in this country's prisons.

What does this woman (a Miss Natasha Hughes) do to warrant such leniency?
One quickly dismisses the notion of the judiciary accepting bribery in kind.
Actually you do this rather quickly when you read the rest of the item.

What the hell was the magistrate thinking? Could I be immune from motoring
fines because, "travelling at more than the speed limit makes me look cool?"

Fuckwits.

It gets better though. When you read on you discover that Miss Hughes aged
18 of Worcester has had her privillages revoked. On her appearing in court
again, having breached bail terms, local beaks spotted the error in their
initial judgement. ARE THESE PEOPLE ON DAY RELEASE FROM THE HOUSE OF LORDS?

It was also reported that Miss H additionally now faces a charge of assault.
No doubt as a result of her realising what aggressive apparel concoctions
were held by her future.

Salt of the earth then. Utterly deserving of the Justice's accommodation of
her initial fashion stress.

Can we not now name, shame and force both ID tag and clashing skirt upon the
idiot wig sporter who allowed this?

NB this rant was brought to you following the news that Boris will no longer
be editing the Spectator. I hope this goes some way to redress the imminent
loss of rant we are about to suffer.

Been in Istanbul for a few days now.

Nice place. Apart from our hotel.

OK, that's a little harsh on the hotel; they believe that being this close to the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya is a good thing. It is a good thing with regards to sightseeing and shoe leather.

It is not, however, a good thing with regard to sleep nor sanity.

Like all mosques our local Blue example and the formerly Christian Aya Sofya next door feature minarets. These not only look nice, but also provide broadcast points for the holy men of the mosque to call the faithful to prayer.

I can report that the Islamic tenet requiring prayer five times a day is strictly observed throughout Istanbul, but the call for this prayer from minarets is no longer effected by the unaided vocal talent of the Mosque's muezzin.

Oh no, today's call to prayer is greatly aided by the microphone, the amplifier and the public address loud speaker.

Of the city's 3,000 or so mosques, the two loudest (proudly so I imagine) are 1) adjacent to each other, and 2) within whispering distance of our hotel.

So on Monday morning (having snatched only a few hours' sleep after a late flight in) we were bullied from our blessed unconsciousness by the dual, slightly out of sync but highly amplified wails of the 6.00 am calls for prayer from Mosques Blue and Ayasofya.

The Westbrook is now the relieved owner of earplugs and is seriously considering the expansion of the gadget cupboard to accommodate a pair of those ridiculously expensive noise-cancelling headphones.

Other than that, cool city. And anyone thinking of eBaying a pair of Bose's finest, please mail me.

The Westbrook and a select crew of sealegless tars just finished a week of yachting around the Ionian. Always thought yachting was for the collars-up, is-this-far-from-Fulham? clique, but delighted to find that humans sail too. Naturally we met the odd tosser here and there, and what is it with Scum Sail charter clients? You can take the man out Essex.... Anyway, we had a great time, even the VA (not keen on water) and the Big Dog (seriously allergic to solar radiation and stalagtites). Huge gratitude to "So how does that work?" Laura and "I adore Harry Potter" Bruce for 1) inviting us and 2) enduring us for a week. Also to Tony our skipper who rapidly taught us that the first, and most important, rule of sailing concerns the fridge and its capacity for beer.

OK Officer, just for you and the salad, the first shot is the only one I have taken in daylight and it's not great. That said, All Saints on the left and a stretch of heath before Canary Wharf pokes over the horizon.










This next one is the best of a drunken evening's attempt to capture the best of the sunset. This is one of nearly 50 shots. Westbrook requires either sobriety or drunk photography training.


Shots of coffee oven will follow in due course.

It's a great thing. We get mobile phones with cameras, PDAs with GPS and bluetooth with everything.

What will the future brings us? Wi-fi kettles, smart loo roll and a transmogrification compartment in the bin? Who knows, but in the VA's new flat a bit of convergence future has arrived....

The swanky German kitchen comes with an integrated espresso machine. Cool as you like.

Upon seeing it (please imagine a very broad Scots accent) one recent guest turned to her boyfriend and exclaimed in wonder...

"Would you look at that... the oven makes coffee."

Just imagine you’ve bought a big new flat. Imagine also you’ve got enough cash left over (stop laughing) to investigate filling bits of this flat with fitted furniture.

Next you start looking for a decent supplier. Here’s how it appears to break down:

1. IKEA - if they have it, you like it, and it fits, not that bad
2. MFI - pretends to be better than IKEA but probably isn’t, and might be worse
3. Hammonds - more expensive. Probably better than IKEA, but mostly a home visit design service and a wide range of “filler” panel to make the flatpacks ‘look’ fitted when assembled and bolted to the walls of your rooms
4. Neville Johnson - “real” fitted furniture - i.e. if they don’t have something that fits, they’ll make something that fits
5. Strachen - like Neville Johnson, but you have to fight them harder to get the price down from extortionate

Imagine that eventually a combination of service, quality and available colours of finish led you to go for one of the last two.

Then imagine you were motivated to write this…

Just had a call from them to ask me if I would mind them changing the plans very slightly because otherwise they will have to make special doors rather than use "standardised" doors. Told them in no uncertain terms that if I had been happy with standardised doors I would have gone to IKEA rather than paying them XX grand! Strangely they backed down ...... Cheeky so and so's!

Nice one Neville!

Imagine you work for a large organisation. In which department would you prefer to reside? Research? Manufacturing? Sales? Or perhaps, Retention?

Retention is a trend: several service industries in the UK are now promoting how they are making offers available to all customers that, previously, were only open to new customers. Enter the objectionable Mr Lardy guarding the building society's pencils, and the farty Limo Lama in the Orange hot tub.

All well and good, but what I really like are the outfits that offer their very best deals to their soon-to-be-someone-else’s customers. On Thursday last week I was on the web site for Carphone Warehouse, mostly to see how good the Big Dog’s new phone was. Quite good it turned out. But whilst there, I noticed a promotion for a very posh new handset, free, and loads of free minutes for only 2.99 a month. Taken by the moment I called the number.

There were catches, but within 15 minutes, Michael-the-salesman had me convinced to take up the offer, which would involve switching networks from O2 to t’mobile (despite my knowledge that t’mobile has coverage the way that Debenham’s has class). So, Michael carefully informed me that once my phone arrived I’d have to call O2 for a port code. Note exactly when he recommended that the call to O2 should take place - after the phone was in my possession. As quickly became clear, he knew something I didn’t. He knew about Geoff.

Upon calling O2 (immediately, I was failing to see the sense in waiting) I was smartly transferred to Geoff.

Now Geoff was Mr Exit Interview, “we know that you’re leaving us but do you mind if I ask why?”

Well, I explained that O2 hadn’t come close to the t’mobile deal, despite me having been an O2 (nee Cellnet) customer for well over 10 years.

Geoff, it turns out, has the keys to the real deal cabinet.

Not only did he match the phone price (zero), but he also reduced my current line rental and expanded my current numbers of free minutes and texts. He then started offering me hard cash. I respond well to hard cash. Hard cash can readily be exchanged for new gadgets, Westbrook likes new gadgets.

There must be hundreds of companies that fail to do this effectively, and end up with disgruntled former customers that line the pockets of the competition. My last gym for example. Idiots, I attempted to negotiate a deal that would have been free money for them (since I used the gym less than once a month), but no. They'd rather I buggered off to another gym and then write rude things about Topnotch on Tudor Street in central London for being inflexible jobsworths.

Back to where I started... Today I called Geoff to check a couple of things. When the call was answered, not by Geoff, I learned that this division of special offers has a less then special name. It has an ugly name...

“Retention department, can I help you?”
“Retention department? You're kidding?
“Sorry?”

So I guess that Geoff’s a retention agent. Imagine describing that to your mates in the pub...

FRIEND: “How’s the new job Geoff?”
GEOFF: “Great, really loving it”
FRIEND: “So what do you do now, exactly?”
GEOFF: “Well, I’m corporate Imodium. Talk to me for too long and I'll need to put you through to my friends at Exlaxacon.”

If you set up a department designed to prevent customer haemorrhage at the point of no return, don’t let them know that the department’s called Retention. There are relativelty few words with worse connotations.

Call it Special Services. Call it Offer Negotiation. Call it Option Creation. But not Retention. It makes the last line of defense sound like bottom cork.


However, if you're at the end of your mobile phone contract, call your service provider and ask for a PAC number. They put you through to Geoff.

Shouldn’t Easter really be a much bigger deal than Christmas? Given the current religious significance we apply to these annual festivals, you’d expect biblemmingdom to make a bit more of a fuss each spring. OK, so Christmas celebrates the birth of the messiah, and the supreme being’s sacrifice to help mankind out of a tight spot; but Easter celebrates the messiah’s ultimate sacrifice for mankind, and his subsequent resurrection.

Now that’s big: death and re-animation three days later. Tragedy and ecstasy at either end of the weekend. No spurious astrologers. No Herrodian contrivances. No carols, no pine cull, no embarrassing subject matter for Dan Brown to exploit 2000 years later.

Just hefty doses of betrayal, treachery, torture, death and then redemption, a whiff of the supernatural and the reclamation of rightful places in the firmament. Great.

Can you imagine if they were reversed?

Santa would have some seriously frisky reindeer to handle. Holly and mistletoe wouldn’t get a look in. We’d pull ascension crackers over Easter Dinner. There’s be a glut of bunny-themed movies running back to back with re-runs of The Passion of Christ.

We’d have to find some other reason to exchange gifts, or perhaps we’d remember Peter and exchange pocket-sized denials instead?

But the Nativity play would be Shakespearean, just think of the grand themes. No idea what they’d call it, but Mums would turn to God each March, praying that some other kid got cast as Judas.

Westbrook is going snowboarding! Only 39 hours from take off. Only one day left in the office. Should be on the slopes in a little over 60 hours.

There's a whole crowd of us, but it divides into two distinct groups. Mixing groups can be dangerous, but I'm looking forward to it. Here's the cast:

Group A) Big Dog, the VA, Punk and Diamond
Group B) A host of regulars with whom the Westbrook's been boarding on and off since university days: Timbo, Ginger, Graphic Tony, Copper Carlos, Mr Mersey, Sue and the-youngest-Mrs-Langmaid's replacement: Alexi Night Fever

The differences between these two groups should be fun:

Group A) Doesn't ski, or hasn't for a decade or more
Group B) Includes some very hard-core off-pisteurs

Group A) Will drink its collective body weight in wine and beer several times over, given sufficient time off work and an appropriately large supply
Group B) Will get through a bottle or two of wine with dinner

Group A) Will abandon the slopes at the first sign of a half-decent restaurant
Group B) Once abandoned the slopes to visit the Geneva motor show!

Group A) Will know the resort within hours of arrival by its wine bars and restaurants
Group B) Will know the resort within hours of arrival by its ski shops and wherever the mountain guides hang out

I suspect that my food and alcohol intake is going to increase in direct proportion to a reduction in my time spent snowboarding.

That said, I've been checking with my Italian friends (We'll be in Zermatt, an hour on skis from the border), and they make a point of combing the two. In preparation for a return to the chalet they like to order a few Bombardinos.

What a great name. Here's how they make them ...

1/3 coffee
1/3 Vov (egg liquor)
1/3 Whiskey
Served hot with whipped cream and chocolate powder

Bombardino indeed.

I see a rechristening heading the way of Group A.

And I'm looking forward to the corruption of Copper Carlos, aided and abetted by Alexi Night Fever!

I love this advert. Created by these chaps. Very funky.



Almost as good as the bear fight salmon ad.

Brains, Welsh brewers of a concoction known to locals as "Skull Attack", have for some time been the guardians of national optimism.

A noble stewardship and not one I'd be keen to shoulder.

Anyway, central Cardiff has been adorned by several huge posters encouraging the Welsh to imagine that they've won the 2007 Rugby World Cup.

This was recently followed by a leaked (leeked?) copy of a follow up ad pertinent to the current English performance in the Six Nations.

Given this good-natured ribbing, I'm sure that the Welsh will enjoy the following as much as I did...


Twice now I've seen Wales v England in Cardiff: two weeks ago, and before that in 1993. Considering the outcome of these two fixtures, any sufficiently wealthy Welsh rugby fans can certainly make offers to ensure that I attend future clashes. Offers in excess of £10,000.00 plus expenses only please.

With thanks to Diamond for sending these

Westbrook's in trouble. Turns out that Punk and Diamond read these pages last week. For the first time. Tsk, tsk.

Despite the Westbrook virgin admission, they still felt justified in levelling content criticism. A little rich I thought. But an important lesson learned: comparative matrimologists don't exist for a very good reason.

I thought I was doing a good thing by posting "Holly and Turk's Cool Wedding". Little did I appreciate how dangerous the use of superlatives could be.

Westbrook warning: Do not use superlatives when reporting on weddings!

Your friends quickly take umbrage. Punk and Diamond were particularly put out, they've even abandoned us for New Year and made hasty plans for a retreat to Ireland.

If one were to score weddings, how would it be done?

For the record, Punk and Diamond's wedding was excellent.

(please note careful avoidance of comparative)

Half the guests flew half way around the world to be there and the other half ensured that the dance floor was populated by people who could dance. Special points to the Cobbler who grooved-on magnificently!

Even the hours spent in the church were bearable. It was a Greek orthodox church which entailed a lot of marble and as little light as possible. Pretty orthodox I guess. Anyway the nine feet of marble on all sides provided an excellent shield from the Chicago summer which was decidedly uncomfortable, especially for those of us who'd flown in from places like London.

Penguin outfits were definitely best kept to events in churches resembling marble mausolea.
It was however, and not just literally, a cool wedding.

Nonetheless, points were lost for flagrant use of language that Westbrook doesn't speak. More were lost when a great deal of this was sung. Well, not quite sung; Shatnered, is probably closer.

Points were gained by the circle ribbon dance required of the bride and groom during the ceremony. No problem for Diamond, but Punk circling his soon-to-be wife whilst sporting a ribbon head dress was definitely worth the wait.

Points were again in the balance when the Westbrook, among the ‘Groomsmen’, was required to stand at the front whilst Biblemmic Greek Shatnering was endured for not one, but two ceremonies. One for the marriage, but only after one for the betrothal.

Once The Orthodox get you in a church, they're keen to keep you there as long as possible.

Thereafter things generally picked up points on all fronts. The reception venue, the food, the afore-mention dancing.

Even all the Americans!

Proceeding with superlative caution, it was also the most set-in-Chicago wedding I've ever attended, and also the most Greek.


Post script

Despite his improving skills in comparative matrimology, I'd concede that the The Announcer was a bit pants.

Westbrook is now eating Christmas dinner. Time to report on the 'motto'
wars.

Greeting card entry...

Why wasn't Jesus born in Essex?

They couldn't find three wise men or a virgin.

Cracker entry...

What goes around Paris in a tupperware box?

The lunchpack of Notre Dame


Not bad for a cracker.

If pandas now represent a general fight against poor punctuation, can turkeys represent a fight specific to Christmas?

"Seasons greetings"
Lloyds TSB Bank, Ludgate Hill, Central London (on each cashier's window)


"Seasons's greetings"
Apple.com shop, Christmas promotional email


"Complements of the season"
Advert for a gym, the tube at Blackfriars
Christmas must be tough for the militant grammarian.

Seen whilst travelling with Big Dog on motorway...

A sign that read, "This sign is not in use".

Now that's for what road tax should be used.

I have furnished myself with new gadget which, however improbably, is named after a fruit.

Anyway, I am now able to send and receive email with ease from anywhere that has GPRS reception.

As I have discovered over the last two weeks, this 'anywhere' does not stretch to a moving train, a wooded area or a place outside of the M25 that isn't an airport.

Rather a limited definition of 'anywhere' then.

This reminded me of the occasion last year when we (the company for which Westbrook works) signed an agreement with a new cell-phone provider, and we all had to change our phones to t'mobile.

The pitch was... 'Exactly the same service, but cheaper and centrally controlled'.

In this case, 'exactly' meant, 'erm... Not actually'.

Most fun was observing the disgust of a very senior chap when he realised his new cost-saving t'mobile was failing to work both in his top-floor office or in his charming townhouse.

So, t'mobile... definitely cheaper... a bit like the way not having a car leads to cheaper motoring. Or how being stupid leads to a worry-free existence.

Never really been a fan. Always found the church to be a pretty bizairre construction. Anyway, that's not really what this is about.

Just read an entertaining spat, at a link from Alperland. It featured in the Ecologist which is not a publication I generally find myself empathising with, but often enjoying.

As I read the article to which the B had linked, I began to get cross. Thought I'd spread the crossness: this is what I added to the Alperland post "Meat or no meat?"

"Meat, definitely.

Best argument here, though, is with the good old Ecologist.

I like the Ecologist but I get incensed by what I read there. Bit like the Dail Mail, except that it's really difficult to actually like the Daily Mail.

Anyway, look at who they chose to debate the points. One's an articulate fundamentalist idealist, the other's an ethical idealistic pragmatist. It's like pitting a literary deconstructionist against a well-meaning QC on a point of law.

One would argue that law is a suspicious and meaningless construct, the other would wonder why she was trying to engage this moron in conversation.

With Hugh and Andrew they should have stuck to "Is it wrong to kill a sentient animal?"

That would have put Andrew back in his fundamentalist box while Hugh fought with his conscience and found a logical conclusion.

Not that I'm at all opinionated."

After a brief stint on Google, I had to add another comment ...

"It's worse that I thought. Andrew the wooly fundamentalist had his true credentials obscured by the Ecologist!

A brief google surf revealed his full title: Revd Professor Andrew Linzey.

He's a Professor of Theology and a regular contributer to Church Times. His feature on preaching to animals is truly enlightening!


Moreover, his belief that killing sentient animals is fundamentally wrong will be as unshakeable as his belief in the virgin birth.

He's a Christian Socialist fruit. Check this out ...

Nutter"

What I then discovered was that Hugh is that utopian-living, cool-as-you-like hippy chap from River Cottage. Should have taken the good Reverend to the cleaners. Or at least to the slaughterhouse.

Were you a fan of The Meaning of Liff? Did you ever think that you could have done better? Wasn't the signpost thing just a distraction?

Apologies if Liff has no meaning for you. Excellent Adams enlightenment is available here.

Regardless, hail the neologists and a new foundry for the words that we didn't realise we needed until afterwards.

With thanks to the growler and the traveller.

Am off now for a spot of neologising, I feel the need for a new collective noun for Chavs...

PC fixed!

About bloody time. It was the CIA but they deny everything, especially responsibility for George the retard. Anyway, following successful negotiations, part I of 'Westbrook meets the VA' has been recovered and the entire entry can be seen here.

I've also been able to liberate part II from my repaired computer. If you can't be arsed to revisit part I, then you should know that I'm on an Air India flight from London to Chicago, that I've been mining a gloroiusly rich seam of free beer (the effects of which are becoming clear) and that I've been highly critical of the flight progress map, the food supply, and the snoring bastard in the row behind me.

8 October 2000. 7.48 pm
Can't see O'Hare yet

Hey, on the map we've just hit Greenland (no sense of humour though - surely they could easily have added a big fireball and little images of the coordinated emergency response?)

I was wrong about the map, I could watch it for hours. All the mountains are on it, and the excessive size of our aeroplane is simply a sensible adjustment to make the whole thing more enjoyable - what was I thinking earlier.

Wa hey! I just saw the plane on the map make a left turn! I'm opening the window to check.

Mmm. Not much to be learned about out left turn status from looking out of the window. Seared retinas yes. Information, no.

19:50 We're way over the Atlantic now. Maybe there's a chance they'll feed us again? Maybe this time we'll get a meal.

Gosh, according to the map (I wonder if they have a video of this I can buy? Your flight to Chicago in glorious pixelated Technicolor) we've got a stiff headwind of 64 mph. Jesus that's windy! With due regard for my fellow passengers I resist the temptation to make a curry joke.


8 October 2000. 8.14 pm
Mung Dal!

Oh, I'm beginning to like this. That's my seventh baby Heineken. They're obviously not going to charge me and they've started supplying me with nibbles! The nibbles are called, 'Mung Dal' Cool.

Ingredients:
Mung Dal
Edible oil
Edible salt

Is Mung Dal itself not edible?

Hello? The cabin lights are back on - does this mean, oh please let this mean, food!

Oh, even better - it means drink! Do you think that the Glenbland blend will taste any good after a few Heineken and a packet of Mung Dal? No. Best stick to Heineken.

Fantastic! Heineken number eight and my second packet ever of Mung Dal! (Tasty if not edible).

Have to decide now whether, upon return home, to research the identity of Mung Dal.

Decided against.



THE MAP HAS GONE! Yes, at 20:16, the map was replaced with what appears to be a straight-to-video Judge Reinhold film featuring a St Bernard dog.

So we have a straight-to-video, but we do not have straight-to-audio. Yes… Air India: trust us to fly you from Mumbai to Chicago, but don’t expect simultaneous video and audio.

Oh, and now we’ve lost the picture too!

OK, time to check out the other audio channels...

1. silent
2. silent (hoping for Reinhold anytime though)
3. nope
4. nada
5. here we go! 'Now that's what I call Taj-tastic 10'
6. Wow - an incredible east meets west fusion of the Nolan sisters and Japanese warble. Brilliant.

Hey, back to the other channels later. Judge and his Z-list pals are back.

OK, I'm looking on the bright side - the snorer is now either not penetrating my viewing and listening pleasure, or he's stopped.

STOP PRESS
I've just looked round. The Cabin lights are on… and there are only women on the row behind - OK, I'm checking for Adam’s apples.... no Adam’s apples!

Definitely time to refocus. I just asked for more snacks. Cool, I am now the proud owner of several packets of 'Bhakdar Vadi'! I'm not complaining though, I've just remembered how much less expensive this flight was than the BA alternative.

Judge is under-performing, even by his standards.

OK, Bhakdar Vadi is spicy, but it tastes faintly off. I'm with Mung Dal. Although things are beginning to look a little bleak ...

Run out of beer. Emergency. Emergency.

Very bad movie. Beer drought… Low on snacks... Emergency.

I don't know the address at which I'll be staying at in the US. This information is of course being demanded by both US immigration and US customs. Have decided to fill in landing cards when more sober. Doubt that Captain Immigration will find it too funny if I draw a map instead.

Have also decided that there will be no more food. Am seeking the acquisition of more Mung Dal. Have also noticed that most people are asleep. Given the reduced risk of being caught, I've adoped a new strategy quell the throaty nasal roar of the she-beast. I have started flicking grains of Bhakdar Vadi over my head into the row behind. Judging by the snore-cough fitting that's just begun, I think I just scored a direct hit!

Anyone seen the sign in John Lewis on Oxford St that says, ALTERNATIVE
ESCALATORS ?

Brilliant. You could do something good, you could take an illegal substance,
or you could go for that athletic high you're convinced is alien to everyone
in your local gym.

But why bother when perfectly adequate alternative escalators are available
from John Lewis?

I've been meaning to launch a clothing company for years, just so that I can
get that sign on to a T shirt. Not the most robust of business plans I know,
but if I can't shake my current bout of residual motivation I can see it
happening.

Needing jabs for Africa, Westbrook needed to visit a doctor - and it seemed sensible, after seven years without a GP, to register with a local practice.

In doing so, Westbrook experienced the sharp end of primary healthcare in the UK. Primarily he encountered a nurse who didn’t appear to know much about… well, being a nurse.

[INT: 1720. Waiting room. Doctor's surgery. North London.]

WB: Hi. I've a 5.30 appointment with the nurse.

[Receptionist (RCP) looks up with the warm but worn look of someone who's spent another long day of calm efficiency in the face of relentlessly demanding humanity at its lowest ebb.]

RCP: The Westbrook? New patient and travel jabs? [Westbrook nods] We’re running a little late. While you’re waiting would you please fill in these forms?

WB: Sure. Thank you.

[RCP was charming and helpful. Just as she’d been when I called to make the appointment.]

[1730. Forms all filled in. My new medical care team will soon be know that I don’t smoke, that I do take exercise from time to time, that I lie unconvincingly about how much I drink and that my parents and grandparents have experienced a smattering medical issues.]

[1815. It’s been a while and the Westbrook has become a little agitated. He is remaining calm, although he is reminding himself that he should consider private medial care when he next requires the attention of a doctor.]

[1830. The nurse (NUR) with whom my appointment is booked enters the waiting room. A nice jolly demeanour and a remarkable combination of features: body of Claire Raynor, hair of Flowella Benjamin and the face of Bill Clinton.]

NUR: Westbrook? Please come through. My name’s Rosemary Clinton Raynor.

[INT: Consulting room]

NUR: New patient health check and travel vaccinations, is that right? Good. Although I’m not sure that I can do them both in the same visit. I mean, I’m not sure if I can give you the travel until you’ve been accepted as a patient …
WB: OK, I guess we're going to have to do the new patient bit first

NUR: Hmmm, I might only be allowed to do one and not both ...

WB: Really? That’s surprising. It was specifically that combination that was checked and booked when I made the appointment. And hasn’t the previous patient just been through exactly the same process? If it’s a choice between the two, please just mark me down as a private patient and give me the jabs, I don’t want to cause you any problems.

NUR: Oh. Erm. I suppose we can do this. [SUPPOSE!] We’ll do the new patient first? The travel takes time. It takes time to do the travel. Shall we do new patient first?

It’s your office nursie. Do what you like.

WB: That sounds fine to me.

NUR: Now. I need to know whether there are any conditions and diseases in the family. Have you, your parents or your grandparents ever had… [consults chart] a stroke?

WB: Erm, did the receptionist give you that form I filled in?

NUR: Yes, I have it here.

WB: Oh good.

NUR: Now. I need to know whether there are any conditions and diseases in the family. Have you, your parents or your grandparents ever had… [consults chart] a stroke?

WB: Erm, I did list these on the form …. Perhaps they’ve not given you the right one?

NUR: Oh, yes. Erm.. I still need to ask. otherwise how could we be sure?

WB: So you'll be more sure of something I've said, than of something I've written...?

NUR: Erm. Yes. Erm.... But, but I need to know... which are... maternal, and which are paternal.

[Relief on her face at having grasped this straw was very worrying]


WB: Oh, no problem. They’re all maternal apart from the one at the top which is on the paternal side and the one at the bottom which has affected both sides of the family.

NUR: Ah yes. So which ones have affected your mother's side of the family?

[Arrrgh!]

NUR: Where are you travelling to?

[Westbrook explains that first he’s off to Cape Town.]

NUR: Cape Verse Islands. Let’s see. Hmmmm

WB: I’m sorry, I should have explained. I’m not going to Cape Verde Islands, but to Cape Town in South Africa

NUR: I can’t find Cape Town. Is that in the Cape Verde Islands?

[It's now nearly two hours after the Westbrook signed in with the Receptionist. Apart from frustration with the colossal waste of time, the Westbrook is also now becoming worried that this Nurse will soon be armed with pointy metal things for the jabbing of Westbrook shoulders]

[Skipping ahead…]

NUR: Oops, I forgot. I should have taken your blood pressure earlier.

WB: Shouldn't take a moment, should I roll up a sleeve?

NUR: Sleeve...? Oh, yes. Good idea

WB: OK. There you are. What pressure would be normal?

NUR: Uhm. Not easy to say…

[Glad you remembered to measure it then.]

I turn my back for a second and my PC dies, my blog starts losing chunks of itself, the weather gets colder and the leader of the Palestinian cause pegs it in Paris. Connected? I think so.

For anyone awaiting the next chapter of “where did you guys meet?” Please give me a chance to find out who kidnapped the bulk of the first chapter. As soon as the CIA has its blood money and I've worked out what the Koreans have done to my PC, I'll cobble together chapter 2.

As for Arafat, could it be the product of an alliance between Prince Phillip and Al Fayed? And I’m pinning the suspiciously frigid weather on the Moonies.

Oh, if you haven't yet paused to wonder if the Westbrook hasn't started drunk blogging again, that's because you're a Republican-voting septic. Given that this is the case please note that the TIME coverage of the Daily Mirror’s front page, 4 November 2004, was NOT a spoof.

What were you all thinking?

Back from Cyprus. Was great. Me, Big Dog, Punk, Diamond and the VA all chilled for a week with an isolated beach-front villa as a base for our Akamas adventures.

Lessons learned:

1) Do mix a camp fire on the beach with a full moonlit evening
2) Cypriots really believe that they drive better when drunk
3) The police appear to encourage this
4) Don't expect to be able to BBQ by the light of the moon, however full
5) Do mix picnicing, boozing, sunbathing and snorkelling with a powerboat
6) Don't mix any of the immediately above with an anchor that decides to fall off the end of its chain at the bottom of the sea
7) Don't mix booze, religion and the big dog

...can really screw up your internet presence. Turns out I've been happily adding and editing posts to no avail; a careless click at some point inadvertently changed my publishing settings and nothing thereafter made it beyond a Westbrook audience of one.

Sorry.

Anyway. Westbrook is back online, and now only fighting the inconvenience of having a dead computer. Since this prevents me from posting at home, it should at least provide temporary prevention of alcohol interference.

Anyone know a good reanimator of PCs?

Thanks for the comments and questions.

Thirteen is ...

1) The pilot for 24 with time dilation to save cash
2) The pilot for 24 when it was to be set on Mercury
3) A film beset by bad luck
4) Half a really crap horror franchise sequel
5) Not enough chromosomes
6) Numerical short-hand for pizza-faced
7) Too many arms
9) 24 re-made by PE teachers

This is silly. Time to stop. Thanks to those patient enogh to read the contents of the tickers.


More on thirteen can be found here and here

PS - (8) was really bad

Did you know that the Corrs once got asked this by the host of a live, national , morning TV show? Excellent! Nothing like research or the ability to spot a family resemblance then.

NB With thanks to Big Dog: this braniac was Kelly Brook live on the Big Breakfast.

I guess the question could also be a bit awkward if you married your ex-best friend's ex-wife, or one of your dad's kids.

Anyway, I got asked this at work today, and realised that I could pause for effect, and then casually admit that the VA and I met in Chicago. I hope that they were asking about the VA and not me and Big Dog.... Maybe I'll have to check with this colleague that they didn't once work in TV...

Regardless... I remain grateful it was Chicago and not, say, Grimsby.

OK, I'm not great at pulling off the cool that could probably be achieved with such an opportunity, but that's probably becase I remember the reality.

I remember it, because I wrote it down. Since I'm struggling through a short period of Blogger's block, please find below the first installment of "Westbrook meets VA in Chicago"...

8 October 2000. 7.01 pm
Somewhere over the Atlantic between Heathrow and O'Hare

Air India.

OK, no problem. The flight is cheap and they have a safety record as good as anyone else’s. Not that I checked any safety records. I just repeated it to myself a couple of times and it sounded entirely plausible.

Thus far I have two criticisms:

1) Famine

With the first 'meal', I was supplied an arsenal of cutlery and a tray of near-empty trays. All very alluring and I quickly tucked into my starter of lamb samosa. Selecting from an array, I chose new eating irons and awaited the main course (whilst musing that perhaps it is traditionally Indian for cup cakes to be served with samosas – just a tradition that is overlooked in British Indian restaurants).

No main course was forthcoming.

It was the samosa and the cup cake. That was the meal.

The other trays must have been for those that like to arrange their crumbs. And the knife and fork for those feeling particularly middle-class.

I've been on this flight for about three hours now, and I skipped lunch on the premise of, "It's OK, I'll eat on the plane". My neighbour's begun to notice that I have a certain Dr Lecter about me.

Time to address the other criticism...

2) Drought

I really, really need a drink. I'm beginning to fear that there's no free booze on offer.

Hold on.... Hip flask!

Feeling better already. Although rations are low. I may have to raid the (board and lodging token) duty-free Glenlivet in the overhead.

OK, so I guess we’re back down to one criticism

8 October 2000. 7.01 pm. Slightly closer to O'Hare
According to the map…. Oh, you get a map on Air India - not a movie. They teased us with an episode of Frasier just after take off. After that it seems a map with flight information is considered more than adequate for the remainder of the trip.

Anyway, according to the map…

Oh arse, someone in the row behind me has begun to snore... loudly. What do I do? He (I'm assuming, nay - hoping, it's a he) is out of nudging range, and a flung pillow will be far too conspicuous.

I can't drown him out with the movie and, in view of this airline's negative policy on free drink, I can't drown him with much else. Any suggestions? I'll be suffocating the bastard soon whatever.

Back to the map... the nose of our aircraft is halfway to Chicago, unfortunately the tail is hopelessly short of this milestone. Am I expected to take an average? - obviously designed to be viewed only through as haze of endless free gin and tonics.

Which reminds me, I've just drained the last from my hip flask. Time to raid the ship's whisky reserves, and damn the cost. The 'attendant' light is on and shining brightly. Bloody hell, they're quick. And they have whisky!! She'll be back in a minute with a bottle so I can check what it is.

Bugger. A no name blend of Glenbland. Not to be defeated I've settled on beer. (Well, domestic strength Heineken).

Oh yes, here we go. My under-stimulated taste buds are roaring with appreciation and my body's airline- fuelled desire for alcohol is soon to be satisfied. Never before has Heineken tasted so good. Best of all, they don't appear to be charging me for it.

Right you snoring bastard....

Mondays. Surely it would be more civilised to begin them at noon?

Was an excellent weekend though. Friday was spent with the VA and other lawyers in the Witness Box. It was supposed to be "a quick drink" with the VA and the Pikey police, but gently it became a bottle each and kicked out at closing. PP even invited the Westbrook to her very posh party. I hope it wasn't the Pinot talking.

Saturday meant bathrooms. Need a new one. So I went to a bathroom shop. I've got a bathroom about the size of a boiler cupboard. I'm not sure I could fill it with £6,000 in £1-coins, let alone £6,000 in new bathroom, but that's what they quoted. Worse, it even looks competitive.

Time to eBay the old bathroom and hope that someone has £6,000 of love for avocado and noisy extractor fans.

Anyway, soon forgot about potential loan requirements by beginning an excellent Saturday night with Holly, Turk and the VA.

Now, Turk had never been to Crouch End, I think he'd read the appropriate entry in "Crap Towns" and wasn't really sure what to expect. Perhaps Lewisham with added gradient and Dylan folklore.

He certainly wasn't expecting a crowd of B-list Eastenders and wannabe rock stars who were checking-out the recently refitted Allbarone. Regardless, this didn't detract too much from a sound introduction to N8, Monkey Nuts, the King's Head and sleepy Christchurch Road.

However, I have now to apologise to all my sleepless Christchurch Road neighbours for the side effects of providing this introduction, which at 2am was probably sounding like a well-bassed domestic incident in Lewisham.

Sorry.

Alas work is calling, so, as the Turk has recently been heard to exclaim, escalater.

Were joined last Friday night by visitors from Chicaco. Now we knew that Kronenwolfer liked a drink, but it was still impressive to watch.

She has an incredible physical capacity for lager. Unfortunately, her physiological capacity for alcohol is of more mortal proportions.

Is regular US draft beer really that much weaker than ours?

Or was Fun Bobby being too liberal with the two-for-one spirit offers?

I know very little about classical music.

I think I can cover most of what I know here: I know that the Old Spice music was written by a bloke called Orff.

All right, so I also know that Mozart was mad, and that there was something special in the water of eighteenth century Vienna.

I know that Chopin was Polish; Bach, German; and Elgar, English. I’ve also learned that it’s possible to feign classical knowledge by adding “well he did have advanced syphilis” to a conversation about virtually any classical luminary.

I’m aware that Tchaikovsky is a dead gay Russian; and that Ashkenazy’s a live straight one. I also know that Nigel Kennedy is a tw*t.

So, whilst I can make some educated guesses, I don’t really know what I’m talking about. I also realised that whilst my iPod sports a collection of impressive range and quality, not one track is in the least bit classical.

So, I took a decision to rectify this. But… suspecting that Nigel Kennedy could well be in danger of contracting syphilis does not help determine which should be the cornerstones of a classical collection. For example, do you collect by composer? degree of mental illness? genre? Or by conductor? orchestra? or nationality?

And even assuming you know which bits of music you want, you’re then confronted by an array of 50 recordings of each. Worse, you have no way of working out which might sound like a Glastonbury bootleg of Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts, and which like studio Zeppelin at the top of their form.

So I sought expert advice. First I tried soyouwanna.com. A useful site, and it reliably provided a handy introduction. But I didn’t want to build a collection of greatest hits, which is how their recommendations would have panned-out. A different kind of expert was required. And found…

Enter, the Vague Association (aka 'the VA', aka 'Rachel')

Whilst I think Brahms was Wendy Richards when she still knew how to smile, Rachel was winning music prizes and scholarships when she was barely walking. An accomplished pianist, and able to make a clarinet sound as though it’s not in pain, Rachel had to be my next stop.

A plan was hatching. This initial research took place about a fortnight before my birthday. The VA was already asking for present hints. Now, she’s left me with the impression that I’m not particularly easy to buy for. She has a point, if I want something, I order it. So the things that I want, that I don’t have, are usually either very expensive or they don’t exist.

However, I did want a beginner’s collection of classical music recordings. This falls into a different category: “Things I want, but can’t accurately describe”. An unusual category. But, perhaps, perfect.

The idea was broached, and was very well received. Turns out, I’d given the VA both a simple gift solution, AND an excuse to spend hours in the classical music departments of London’s finest record stores. Apparently, this is the sort of thing I should be doing more often.

Anyway, shortly after first mentioning the idea I was quickly at sea. In three minutes she’d mentioned six composers of whom I’d never heard, a dozen musical forms that I’d struggle to identify and at least three orchestras from cities that I’d not expect to have traffic problems, let alone a world-renowned classical performance heritage. Confident that I’d regain my stride at some point, I left her to it.

Yesterday, the gift arrived. Friday was the big day, but the VA was in France until yesterday with the TCs, The Charltons and other assorted greats who hadn’t yet run out of holiday, whilst the Westbrook was stuck in London.... Not at all bitter.

OK, I have to take it on trust that these are indeed the right recordings and that the major bases are covered, but from what I’ve had a chance to listen to, it’s great.

So, for anyone wishing to seed a classical music collection, here’s what you need (Notwithstanding he VA’s bias towards both a piano and Rachmaninov):

Symphonies
Beethoven’s 5th
Schubert’s 8th
Mahler’s 4th
Rachmaninov’s 1st 2nd and 3rd

Concertos
Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1
Schumann’s Piano Concerto in A minor
Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B minor
Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor
Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor
Liszt’s Piano Concertos 1 & 2
Rachmaninov’s Compete Piano Concertos

Other piano stuff
Debussy’s Piano Works
Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas
Chopin’s Ballades 1-4

Naturally it's not that simple. Given that your jobbing classical composer had little regard for the standard format for early 21st century music distribution, these rarely arrive on one album each. I'm so glad she knew what she was doing. And if you're at all interested in how the above lot breaks down by recording, you'll need to visit here.

Now, who do I know that can tell me about impressionist art...?

Weddings are great. I'm still recovering from possibly the coolest wedding I've ever experienced. Notwithstanding the one where, aged 8, I discovered an unattended cider keg.

All the failings and the money-grabbing, religion-throat-down-pushing antics of church weddings were starkly exposed as we sailed through a fantastic day of bride and groom, hosted by the Four Seasons hotel on Canary Wharf.

No pomp. Cool ceremony. Great music. Relaxed. Panache. Understatement. Fun. Wonderful.

Turk and Holly pulled off a most amazing celebration. We all just stood by in awe...

At least we did until Love Shack came on.

Dando.... dead.

Dodi... dead.

Di... dead.

Dodo... dead.

Surley Dido's getting a bit worried?

Colin and Fergus

Thank the Gods of primates!

On Saturday we received news via the VA's mum that George has been found!

Apparently without testicles tattooed blue.

The Westbrook continues to be denied custody for carriage of monkeys, a circumstance with which he is more than happy to live.

We will be thanking the many kind establishments of Crouch End which helped with the hunt. Particular gratitude, however, is directed towards Oddbins and Monkey Nuts, both of which lent valuable support and sympathy.

Thanks also to The World Cafe, B2, all Crouch End's bus stops, Banners, and the Newsagent on Crouch Hill who refused to accept payment for photocopying posters when he realised to what it was we were up.

Welcome home George

No posts for while, have been attempting to sort out photos from recent African trip.

Have discovered problem of using iPod as digital camera memory:

Too many fecking photos!

I've got thousands of the bloody things! Worse, I'm not great at taking photos, so only about 30-50 will be any good. So now I'm sifting through hundreds of blurred baboon and flash mashed lion looking for the elusive 'impala before it ran away' and 'obviously leopard - not just horizon dot'.

It's time consuming.

I'm spotting a new Wallpaper-generation business opportunity though: after iPod it wasn't long before someone realised that the average urban style junkie was not about to spend hour upon hour feeding 20 years' of CD collecting into MP3-ville. So for £1 a disk they do it for you. Brilliant: style and hip maintained; and nerdiness avoided.

But now, it's holiday snaps. Instead of being limited to 36 shots on a roll of film, we can fill 40GB with whatever garbage we choose. Surely there's someone we can give the whole lot to, who will sift, repair, label, sort and make presentable? Let's face it they might as well drop in a couple of appropriate library shots to flatter the customers' egos. Am sure that this wouldn't go down badly. I'd certainly welcome it.

Until then, thank God for the "one-step-photo-fix" button in PaintShop Pro.

(See! Nerdy! Just can't avoid it. Arse.)

Today I had opportunity to write an email to London Underground. I ran into a few problems getting one of their number to help me.

For those fortunate enough to live somewhere other than London, please see the note at the bottom.

I'm looking forward to a reply

Here's what I sent them ...


Hi

I've just arranged for the recharging of my Oystercard online for another 12 months.

I selected the station at which I wanted to recharge (Blackfriars) and this worked fine. Just as your website said, I walked through the gate as normal, the light flashed a couple of times and I now have another 12 months on the card. Excellent.

What didn't work, however, was asking for the Gold Record Card that accompanies the purchase of a 12-month travel card. I asked, as instructed on your website, at Blackfriars and this morning met with a largely vacant chap insisting that I should put my card on the gate sensor to recharge the card.

Finally he understood that I was asking about the Gold Record Card. He then insisted that he didn't have my Gold Record Card for collection. He was quite certain that I would have had to have purchased my Oystercard from Blackfriars station for them to have my Gold Record Card.

He struggled with the idea that buying online would be impossible if what he was saying was true since "The Internet" is not a station on the Underground.

Having acknowledged that he wasn't sure what do to, he opted to do nothing. Not to look, not to ask, not to get off his fat arse.

Given the complete lack of interest in anyone but himself, I was left concerned that London Underground has introduced a new scheme whereby staff get to job swap... ?

Please confirm if this is the case. If so, my morning's experience will simply be down to my encountering one of your drivers.

Regards

The Westbrook

OK - given that I was actually after some service, I wasn't quite that rude: the last two paragraphs didn't feature, and I swapped "chair" for "fat arse".

Notes for the uninitiated
For the City's public transport we have a payment system called Oyster. You buy an Oystercard, pay on line, and then breeze through the gates whilst others queue for tickets that they then fiddle with to get the gate machines to accept. You should also know that London Underground is plagued by militant drivers who strike at the drop of a hat, claim it's for safety when actually it's for
more cash - something that they really, really don't need. If you can imagine what striking drivers does for London's commuters and tourists, you can see just how delightful a practice this is, and that in another context, striking drivers might be quite a good idea.

The VA entrusted me with the planning and organising of a three-week trip to Africa.

The question above can’t have often been far from her mind. Especially when I set myself the challenge of including a bush safari. Hobbit, a former colleague of mine, quit the office and left for Africa to run a bush camp. To the Westbrook, where she’d ended up sounded fantastic. So after a few calls, this was the itinerary:

1) Fly to Cape Town for the city, the mountain and the wine farms
2) Fly to the north east Zambian bush for a week long, two-stop game safari
3) Fly to Zanzibar to chill out on the beaches and reefs on the Indian Ocean

Now, I was guessing that 1 and 3 were not going to require too much of a VA sell. Number 2, though, was unlikely to be so simple.

VA: Safari?
TW: Yep!
VA: With lions and tigers and bears?!
TW: Erm, perhaps lions…
VA: So, why exactly would I want to go?
TW: It’ll be perfectly safe, we’ll be in a big truck
VA: What about bugs? There’ll be creepy crawlies.
TW: It’ll be great! Can you imagine what it must be like watching the sun go down over the African bush with a bottle of KWV?
VA: KWV?
TW: And the romance of watching the light change and the spectacle of elephants crossing the river …
TW: So there’ll be a bar?

[TW snaps out of his daze and remembers the challenge at hand]

TW: Absolutely, we’ll be with a very posh safari company
VA: How posh? Tents are not posh.
TW: Come on, Hobbit’s not going to get a job anywhere that’s 1) not a bit posh, and 2) doesn’t enable her to wear pink. How bad can it be?
VA: But no tents?
TW: I promise. No tents.
VA: Hmmm… will there be monkeys?

OK that went much better than it could have. All the Westbrook had to do now was make sure:

1) That tigers stayed in India and bears in Yosemite
2) That we’d be in, or at least near, a big truck
3) That the bugs were smaller than the birds
4) That there was a bar
5) That there would be no requirement for tents
6) That monkeys were abundant in the South Luangwa National Park
7) That the bar was well-stocked with KWV

It’s worth pointing out at this point, that whilst on holiday the VA likes a leisurely approach to mornings. That she doesn’t function at all without Diet Coke and Earl Grey tea. She doesn’t function to capacity without a glass or two of white wine. That walking is what happens to people who don’t have taxi accounts. That ballet is exercise. That me standing within four feet of the platform edge is a dangerous sport. That when, two years previously, I suggested walking boots for our planned hikes in the Grand Canyon, she looked at me as though I’d just told her she’d have to wear clown shoes to a society ball. And that holidays have room service.

So when the safari company forwarded a highly informative confirmation email to us both… I was in trouble. That the description of a typical day included the numbers 0-5-3-0 and the letters W-A-K-E-U-P-D-R-U-M, left in me considerable doubt that I still had a travelling companion.

Especially when added to the sentence, “What to pack: 1 pair sturdy hiking boots. 3 sets bush coloured safari outfits (long/shorts/shirts) ie khaki (not white, not cream, no bright colours - especially for walking).”

Thankfully, by this time, Hobbit had confirmed the lack of tents, tigers and bears, the presence of a decent bar, the proximity of trucks and, thank God, a local population of vervet monkeys.

It was time to talk up the posh accommodation and the complete lack of Blackberry coverage. It was also time to check out whether Gucci had ever thought to explore safari chic.

Bloody brilliant weekend. Private casino, private dining and a public display of attrition.

We lasted though - even Alper at his most foppish "I... just... can't... drink... beer!".

[You'll have to imagine the camp hand gestures.]

For a more full description and some photographs, check out the Big Dog ....

Can't close this post though without showcasing one of the two brilliant chaps who arranged the whole thing. Pete and Simon engineered a superb weekend. In the snap below, Pete first begins to pay the price of success ...

The VA and I have just returned from a fantastic three-week trip to Africa. It was spectacularly good, and will probably be featuring here for several posts, for example there's …

1 The Trumpet-arsed Alaskan;
2 Not being rude to Canadians;
3 The VA's elephant defence;
4 Zanzibarian lighting; and
5 Flatdogs

Before those, a brief word about the spectacularly bad.

In a word 'Kenya'.

Everything we encountered in Africa was humbling, exciting, beautiful, touching or simply breathtaking.

Apart from Kenya.

Damning the whole country is probably a bit harsh. So I’ll focus on the airline and Nairobi airport.

Kenyan Airways’ slogan is "The Pride of Africa". How the buggers have avoided litigation for this I do not know. Perhaps “bringing a continent in to disrepute” isn’t an offence. If it were, then Kenyan Airways would have had its rubber bands confiscated years ago. If you can imagine being proud of dysentery, you’ll get the nature of my objection.

The Pride of Africa first pissed me off by randomly switching the times of scheduled flights for which they’d already sold us tickets. This happened twice before we left the UK, and on both occasions we had our connections screwed and had to rebook.

Then, on arrival at Nairobi airport, we discovered that they’d sold us a ticket for a flight that didn’t even exist. The East Africa Safari Air - operated Kenyan Air flight from Nairobi to Zanzibar had been cancelled for over three weeks.

Then every last member we met of the Kenyan Air ground staff had the spine of a yeast infection, and none of the personality. Responsibility-shy, self-serving effort-dodgers. Getting them to entertain accountability, sort out transit visas and put us up for the night took the best part of six hours.

The airport however, the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, was more offensive. I should first point out that this is a big airport. It handles about three million passengers a year, roughly the same as JFK, or Hong Kong. An airport of this size that then puts itself about as 'the' international hub for east Africa should at least know how to run an airport.

Nairobi doesn't. It is uncomfortable, inefficient, rude, stupid, rank and vile.

It took as six hours to get our overnight sorted. However, it took us four hours just to confirm that our ticketed flight didn’t exist. Can you imagine an airport where there was no visible flight departure information on the air-side of passport control? No big screens advising of delays, gates, walking times, flight numbers or boarding times. Not even small screens. Not even people you can ask. OK that’s not true, you can ask them… but they don’t know or they prefer that you didn’t.

The lady on the information desk refused to use her telephone to gather information - she appeared genuinly frightened of using it! We ended up tipping a security guard to let us use his internal telephone so that we could call the various airline desks.

All too late we discovered that

1) there was no flight
2) there were no flights remaining that day to (or to near) Zanzibar
3) there was no flight on which we could be confirmed until 1300 the next day
3) East African Safari Air breathed a sigh of relief when they discovered that Kenyan sold us the ticket
4) Kenyan breathed a sigh of relief when they discovered that the flight was listed by East African

Bastards.

In the meantime, Trailfinders in London (the agent for the tickets) was frantically trying to work out how the fuck any airline could cancel a flight but leave it listed on global computer systems until minutes before take-off.

Now had this taken place at Gatwick, Kastrup, Schippol, Geneva or even Chambery, then at least you could relax in a reasonable restaurant. Perhaps enjoy a few beers in one of several bars. You might even kill a few hours wandering around the shops.

At the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport there is a bar, there is a restaurant and there are shops.

There’s a coffee bar offering a selection of beers. It almost has as many seats as it has ways of ordering coffee (12). There’s a restaurant (which has the ambiance of an over-lit a truck stop) that is “proudly” run by the same organisation that provides the Kenyan Air in-flight food. Don't go there - in the restaurant they're under no pressure from an airline not to kill passengers.

Can you imagine an airport the size of JFK with one 12-seat coffee shop and a school cafeteria?

Oh, and yes. There are shops. And some of them do sell booze and fags. All the others though, sell over-priced, carved wooden, pseudo-African tat, and postcards of shagging elephants. All of them. All the space for comfortable seating, a pub, a quiet area, an electronics store, a luggage store, a pharmacy, a viewing gallery and a series of luxury goods concessions is filled with crappy shop after crappy shop after crappy shop each filled with the same cheap trinkety ethnic bin fodder.

The winter cattle shed they open at Lyon for British skiers is a nicer place to be than Nairobi airport.

I read whilst I was there that the World Bank is funding a US$23 million refurb. In the article, a Kenyan government official expressed immense surprise that an airport might be somewhere that people could consider enjoying their brief stay. World bank - please keep a very close eye on how these idiots spend your cash.

If there’s a reasonable alternative to Nairobi and you’re in east Africa, take the alternative.

The VA's getting ever more concerned.

It's now two days PGW (Post George Wander) and, barring a few drunk claims on Saturday night, we have no leads. As for the drunken claimed sightings of George having a pint in the King's Head and then hopping on the W7 to Muswell Hill: we have your number; and it'll appear here if you do it again you naughty lad!

Hey, threatening Westbrook! A bit of work required there I think. Hmmm.

The poster campaign is attracting lots of attention though, and some of the number tabs have been carefully removed. A good sign I suppose.

We're "holding thumbs" as they say in South Africa, instead of "fingers crossed".

Do you really think they say that? According to my guide book to Cape Town they do. We're off to Cape Town soon. And from there to Zambia. And from there to Zanzibar! I learned last week from a friend who's working at what will be our safari lodge in Zambia, that there are lots of local monkeys. She added that they are of a species notable for their bright blue sweetbreads!

This got me thinking. Is George worried that he'll not fit in when we arrive? I can't say I've ever looked, but I suspect that I'd have noticed if he had a couple of bright five-pointers in his lunchbox. Forget Banners and the local hymn hall! I'm off to Crouch End's tattoo shop! If they've tales of a recent simian request for testicular repigmentation, then our lead-drought might be over.

"Holding thumbs"? Well, they call traffic lights "robots", and the monkeys have blue bollocks so I guess it's entirely plausible.

Westbrook's in trouble. Last night, on way back from the pub to Westbrook's house, George (in Westbrook's bag) made a break for liberty. He was probably simply trying to get home first and surprise Westbrook. Alas, he lost his way. The VA is distraught. Even Punk's distraught.

We've even fly-postered Crouch End ...



Do you think that will do it?

I'm off to fly-post some more this morning. I think postings by the church and Banners should reach most people in Crouch End on a Sunday.

Please, if you know where George is, let Westbrook know. Westbrook needs your help. George needs to be with the The VA!

Westbrook needs to be in less trouble.