Months ago I replaced the blog's logo with lyrics taken from songs. This was inspired by a WGE training session where, from memory, I reeled off my favourite lyrics and Ana rated them in the order that she liked. I liked the idea of having them as quotes, stripped of the music and singing to see if they worked on their own.
Some did and some didn't, so I looked elsewhere. Last week I replaced the lyrics with a standard header with the intent of a new series of quotations from novels and movies. This... doesn't work as well as I hoped as the vernacular used in some films is a little unimaginative. So, I've replaced them with more of my favourite lyrics, starting with this current one from Yo La Tengo. As the logo's are gone, below is the previous headers archived.
Sit with me a while and let me listen to you talk about your dreams and your obsessions, I'll be quiet and confessional... the violets explode inside me when I meet your eyes, then I'm spinning and I'm driving like a cloud of starlings... Darling is this love?
Elbow - Starlings - The Seldom Seen Kid
The instand fizz connection made... and the curtains sigh in time with you, You the only sense the world has ever made.
Elbow - Switching Off - A Cast of Thousands
I said "Kiss me, you're beautiful, these are truly the last days" and we fell into it, like a daydream or a fever.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor - The Dead Flag Blues (Intro) - F#A# Infinity
Secret teachings left me feeling strange, shadows gained and bottles drained. Let your tears fall in the shapes of everyone of the American states.
Idlewild - Make Another World - Make Another World
Your thoughts are the strangest place I've ever been, stranger even than Los Angeles - it's like a cinema where they never ask you to leave.
Idlewild - The Space Between All Things - Warnings and Promises
11am soon became 1am and the next day, and it seems that I've spent some 20 years just gazing at your face... and in her eyes she seemed to know me, seemed to search into my soul.
King Creosote - Leslie - Bombshell
Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm.
The Smiths - Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me - Strangeways, Here We Come
Another Hotel with woollen plans, Romantic gesture, with woollen plans. So you make it your own, and this is where your arm can't go.
The Twilight Sad - Cold Days from the Birdhouse - 14 Autumns and 15 Winters
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Tale of Chemical Engineering (Part IV of I)
(Previously parts I, II and III)
At the end of my degree I posted an honest account of the way that I appraised the end of my education and the choices I had to make. 6 months into my work at WG I entered a second part into the series about my thoughts so far. The third, and more vitriolic entry, came when Shayan, Steve and Jonathan all graduated and the whole degree experience as a whole was discussed. 2 years since that original post and the original thoughtful musings on the end of that life, and the fact that 6 = 6 and greater than, another thing has started to creep into my life.
That is of being old, or being older. As of writing this I am 23. I was 21 when I wrote the original post and in those intervening two years a whole shit load of things have changed. My circumstances have got better as my debts slowly dwindle, as my car is slowly paid off, and I am moving on with friends and life. The most interesting thing that has happened to me recently is my failed attempt to leave the Empire for a year’s working in the American States. Houston will be mine next year goddamnit, save for any sudden life changing instances that some of my readers and friends will understand at a personal level.
The application to Houston was something that I was looking forward to – it was a goal, something beyond the limited scope of my recent at-most 2 week planning schedule. It was a pathway to a new life and possibly a new career, as well as the extensive and new experience it would’ve introduced me to. The long lead time that this was going to give me, almost several months of planning and then a year somewhere that had a finite timeline was a big deal… but now that’s been removed suddenly I have a massive gap in my schedule with little or nothing to fill it with other than being alive.
This has lead me to start seriously thinking about the future and what I want to do. Naturally my personality has lead me to think that whilst I can do my job there is limits that I can go to, and this irresponsible modesty has probably been the reason I’m never quite sure if my talky talk that I speak in interviews ever comes across as genuine, or maybe it’s the reason it does. I never lie in those interviews but it never feels natural talking about why I’m better at something because it doesn’t come naturally.
In other circumstances I could’ve done different things – imagine I had gone onto work for Gyrodata, who offered me my first job offer. I’d have been working around the world for different clients in different countries and my life would’ve been totally different. I could’ve gone back to University and done a degree in writing or politics, or something more vocational, and postponed my real life for a few more years. I could’ve gone onto do Teaching like I threatened (and spent £12 applying for) and became a secondary teacher which would’ve left me, quite crazily, about to finish my probationary year and would be a fully qualified teacher by this point.
Instead I joined WG and took my degree to it’s natural conclusion, and have been working as a professional engineer ever since. The magical thing about hindsight is that whilst at the end of the degree I was bemoaning my choices and my eventual circumstance, know I can see that whilst I spent a long time thinking about the choice if I had chosen anything else I’d have a massive regret sitting at the base of my spine as I watched my friends and co-graduating students become highly paid engineers in Aberdeen and I had done something else.
“What do I really want to do? This poses a problem, as I cannot answer it. I fancy doing the usual boring 9 to 5 with a mortage [sic] and a car.”
Mark Shields
"You lose what individualism you have, if you have enough of course, you retain some of it, but most don’t have enough, so you become watchers of game shows, y'know, things like that. Then you work the eight hour job with almost a feeling of goodness, like you're doing something, and you get married like marriage is a victory, and you have children like children is a victory, but most things most people do are a total grind; marriage, birth, children, it's something they HAVE to do because there's nothing else to do. There's no glory in it, there's no steam, there's no fire, it's very, very flat and the earth is full of them. Sorry, but that’s the way I see it. I could not accept the snail's pace 8-5, Johnnie Carson, happy birthday, Christmas, New Year, to me that's the sickest of all sick things".
Charles Bukowski
At the end of my degree I posted an honest account of the way that I appraised the end of my education and the choices I had to make. 6 months into my work at WG I entered a second part into the series about my thoughts so far. The third, and more vitriolic entry, came when Shayan, Steve and Jonathan all graduated and the whole degree experience as a whole was discussed. 2 years since that original post and the original thoughtful musings on the end of that life, and the fact that 6 = 6 and greater than, another thing has started to creep into my life.
That is of being old, or being older. As of writing this I am 23. I was 21 when I wrote the original post and in those intervening two years a whole shit load of things have changed. My circumstances have got better as my debts slowly dwindle, as my car is slowly paid off, and I am moving on with friends and life. The most interesting thing that has happened to me recently is my failed attempt to leave the Empire for a year’s working in the American States. Houston will be mine next year goddamnit, save for any sudden life changing instances that some of my readers and friends will understand at a personal level.
The application to Houston was something that I was looking forward to – it was a goal, something beyond the limited scope of my recent at-most 2 week planning schedule. It was a pathway to a new life and possibly a new career, as well as the extensive and new experience it would’ve introduced me to. The long lead time that this was going to give me, almost several months of planning and then a year somewhere that had a finite timeline was a big deal… but now that’s been removed suddenly I have a massive gap in my schedule with little or nothing to fill it with other than being alive.
This has lead me to start seriously thinking about the future and what I want to do. Naturally my personality has lead me to think that whilst I can do my job there is limits that I can go to, and this irresponsible modesty has probably been the reason I’m never quite sure if my talky talk that I speak in interviews ever comes across as genuine, or maybe it’s the reason it does. I never lie in those interviews but it never feels natural talking about why I’m better at something because it doesn’t come naturally.
In other circumstances I could’ve done different things – imagine I had gone onto work for Gyrodata, who offered me my first job offer. I’d have been working around the world for different clients in different countries and my life would’ve been totally different. I could’ve gone back to University and done a degree in writing or politics, or something more vocational, and postponed my real life for a few more years. I could’ve gone onto do Teaching like I threatened (and spent £12 applying for) and became a secondary teacher which would’ve left me, quite crazily, about to finish my probationary year and would be a fully qualified teacher by this point.
Instead I joined WG and took my degree to it’s natural conclusion, and have been working as a professional engineer ever since. The magical thing about hindsight is that whilst at the end of the degree I was bemoaning my choices and my eventual circumstance, know I can see that whilst I spent a long time thinking about the choice if I had chosen anything else I’d have a massive regret sitting at the base of my spine as I watched my friends and co-graduating students become highly paid engineers in Aberdeen and I had done something else.
“What do I really want to do? This poses a problem, as I cannot answer it. I fancy doing the usual boring 9 to 5 with a mortage [sic] and a car.”
Mark Shields
"You lose what individualism you have, if you have enough of course, you retain some of it, but most don’t have enough, so you become watchers of game shows, y'know, things like that. Then you work the eight hour job with almost a feeling of goodness, like you're doing something, and you get married like marriage is a victory, and you have children like children is a victory, but most things most people do are a total grind; marriage, birth, children, it's something they HAVE to do because there's nothing else to do. There's no glory in it, there's no steam, there's no fire, it's very, very flat and the earth is full of them. Sorry, but that’s the way I see it. I could not accept the snail's pace 8-5, Johnnie Carson, happy birthday, Christmas, New Year, to me that's the sickest of all sick things".
Charles Bukowski
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Packs of Three
It was the biggest cock you'd ever seen,
but you've no idea where that cock has been.
You said you were careful - you never were with me.
I heard you did it four times but Johnnies come in packs of three.
Arab Strap – Packs of Three, from the album Philiophobia
Question: when was the last time you were embarrassed by buying something in a shop? The classic example of being retail-embarrassed is the “Price check on condoms!” that is the nightmare of any teenage boy finding sex for the first time. Can you still be embarrassed as an adult when buying goods from a shop?
Let’s be honest here – I’ve never been embarassed about buying condoms from a supermarket. Not even in Morrisons where they are secured behind a plastic sheath (pun intended) that has to be unlocked by a security tag Alan key… nope, there is no shame I buying condoms what so ever. The only shame that can be found is when you start to think about the person who is serving you… for example, a lovely old woman… you almost want to tell her that you’re not going to be using them for their intended purpose but for filling them with water and chucking them jovially at passing scamps in the street. But you know and she knows what they are for, and the receipt which says “Chemist Goods” rather than “Durex Pleasure Max” knows too, for the façade is an untruth.
My most recent embarrassing thing to buy has been the prospect of having to get a new shaver after water broke my newest one. The reason why this is funny and slightly sympathetic is that I have a fully formed debut beard. The beard isn’t full, as it seems is my curse, but it’s enough to show that I am currently actively cultivating one from the ground up – the funny thing is that I will be walking into a shop to buy a device that allows me to get rid of it and the insinuation will be that the reason I have let it grow is because I didn’t have or couldn’t afford a new shaver.
But the oddest thing that I am slightly worried about buying in shops are the following: Wine, toilet roll and my gym membership. And shit music.
Buying wine is something that I do only when I am feeling particularly flush or feeling like I should get proper drunk and not feel like Martin Clunes in Men Behaving Badly. The wine tastes lovely with fish, as a nice white will work really well, but the fact that I know nothing about wine probably means that I’ve bought the wrong type every single time. Is there any ryhme or reason to choosing a wine? I’m not cultured enough to know if it tastes shit… I like the taste of the one I bought at the weekend for £6.49 and that’s all that matters. But I have this moment of madness when I think when the cashier is going to look at the wine, look at me, look at what I bought, and burst into a mad cackling laughter so devasting my eye balls start to shake in their sockets. Brrr.
For some mad reason I get heavily embarrassed about buying toilet roll. It’s weird. They know why I am going to use it and where it's going to be use, and on what part of my body. I suppose the thought of anyone wiping their bum with anything is quite comical and also slightly taboo, but just the fact of buying the stuff is embarassing. it's most embarassing when buying it only, as the sole purchase. I remember a game I was told people in University halls used to play - there was a kitty jar, one for beer and one for sundries. The person who used the last roll of toilet roll had to go and get it, but the challenge was to buy the oddest assortment of useable stuff with it. For example: rubber gloves, vaseline, a cucumber, two spatulas, a bike lock, a pack of eggs, forzen peas, plasters and toilet roll. I think I'd be brilliant at that game.
When signing up for the Jim this past week I got into a nervous thing about going in and asking to join. This is probably something to do with the fear of being a n00b at anything, that is to say someone who doesn't know what they are doing. Infact, my biggest fear in life is not knowing what to do at certain times. Hence my reluctance to do something totally new without a person there who already has done it. Sometimes this doesn’t matter – getting the subway in New York was something neither Steve nor I had done but we had to do it – but the gym is a place where the “new” person is always obvious by their lack of good apparel, or terrible pacing, or bemusement. If I ever feel like I look like I am out of place I feel instantly more uncomfortable, which sends me into a spiral of doom that I can get swept up in. So asking to join the Jim was scary.
Finally, buying crap music. Like the wine purchase, I am worried about what the cashier thinks. I buy good music – it’s one of my things, indeed it might be my thing. But when purchasing for people in the past I’ve had to commit the ultimate sin and buy shite. Seriously, some of the worst shite in musicdom. And, on two occasions I’ve felt it necessary to make excuses – firstly, pretending to be on the phone asking “They’ve only got this album, do you want me to get it” and the other time actually saying the immortal “it’s not for me, it’s a gift for someone else”. I felt like a left tit, with the right tit laughing at me, but I still felt more vindicated than just outright buying them without explaining I really know good music.
but you've no idea where that cock has been.
You said you were careful - you never were with me.
I heard you did it four times but Johnnies come in packs of three.
Arab Strap – Packs of Three, from the album Philiophobia
Question: when was the last time you were embarrassed by buying something in a shop? The classic example of being retail-embarrassed is the “Price check on condoms!” that is the nightmare of any teenage boy finding sex for the first time. Can you still be embarrassed as an adult when buying goods from a shop?
Let’s be honest here – I’ve never been embarassed about buying condoms from a supermarket. Not even in Morrisons where they are secured behind a plastic sheath (pun intended) that has to be unlocked by a security tag Alan key… nope, there is no shame I buying condoms what so ever. The only shame that can be found is when you start to think about the person who is serving you… for example, a lovely old woman… you almost want to tell her that you’re not going to be using them for their intended purpose but for filling them with water and chucking them jovially at passing scamps in the street. But you know and she knows what they are for, and the receipt which says “Chemist Goods” rather than “Durex Pleasure Max” knows too, for the façade is an untruth.
My most recent embarrassing thing to buy has been the prospect of having to get a new shaver after water broke my newest one. The reason why this is funny and slightly sympathetic is that I have a fully formed debut beard. The beard isn’t full, as it seems is my curse, but it’s enough to show that I am currently actively cultivating one from the ground up – the funny thing is that I will be walking into a shop to buy a device that allows me to get rid of it and the insinuation will be that the reason I have let it grow is because I didn’t have or couldn’t afford a new shaver.
But the oddest thing that I am slightly worried about buying in shops are the following: Wine, toilet roll and my gym membership. And shit music.
Buying wine is something that I do only when I am feeling particularly flush or feeling like I should get proper drunk and not feel like Martin Clunes in Men Behaving Badly. The wine tastes lovely with fish, as a nice white will work really well, but the fact that I know nothing about wine probably means that I’ve bought the wrong type every single time. Is there any ryhme or reason to choosing a wine? I’m not cultured enough to know if it tastes shit… I like the taste of the one I bought at the weekend for £6.49 and that’s all that matters. But I have this moment of madness when I think when the cashier is going to look at the wine, look at me, look at what I bought, and burst into a mad cackling laughter so devasting my eye balls start to shake in their sockets. Brrr.
For some mad reason I get heavily embarrassed about buying toilet roll. It’s weird. They know why I am going to use it and where it's going to be use, and on what part of my body. I suppose the thought of anyone wiping their bum with anything is quite comical and also slightly taboo, but just the fact of buying the stuff is embarassing. it's most embarassing when buying it only, as the sole purchase. I remember a game I was told people in University halls used to play - there was a kitty jar, one for beer and one for sundries. The person who used the last roll of toilet roll had to go and get it, but the challenge was to buy the oddest assortment of useable stuff with it. For example: rubber gloves, vaseline, a cucumber, two spatulas, a bike lock, a pack of eggs, forzen peas, plasters and toilet roll. I think I'd be brilliant at that game.
When signing up for the Jim this past week I got into a nervous thing about going in and asking to join. This is probably something to do with the fear of being a n00b at anything, that is to say someone who doesn't know what they are doing. Infact, my biggest fear in life is not knowing what to do at certain times. Hence my reluctance to do something totally new without a person there who already has done it. Sometimes this doesn’t matter – getting the subway in New York was something neither Steve nor I had done but we had to do it – but the gym is a place where the “new” person is always obvious by their lack of good apparel, or terrible pacing, or bemusement. If I ever feel like I look like I am out of place I feel instantly more uncomfortable, which sends me into a spiral of doom that I can get swept up in. So asking to join the Jim was scary.
Finally, buying crap music. Like the wine purchase, I am worried about what the cashier thinks. I buy good music – it’s one of my things, indeed it might be my thing. But when purchasing for people in the past I’ve had to commit the ultimate sin and buy shite. Seriously, some of the worst shite in musicdom. And, on two occasions I’ve felt it necessary to make excuses – firstly, pretending to be on the phone asking “They’ve only got this album, do you want me to get it” and the other time actually saying the immortal “it’s not for me, it’s a gift for someone else”. I felt like a left tit, with the right tit laughing at me, but I still felt more vindicated than just outright buying them without explaining I really know good music.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Haircut.
When I was a child I remember being taken to barbers for the first time and kicking and screaming and generally making a complete scene out of the affair, probably to the embarrassment of my mother. In my older years I would go with my father to the Shawlands barber. In my first few years of university I took longer gaps between my haircuts, growing my hair to obscene lengths that at the time of me graduating, I already knew would be incredibly out of date in the future then. But I had long hair, and most guys have to at least try it.
For my Wood Group interview I went to a Glasgow West End hair salon and paid £30 for a wash, massage, cut and blow dry. And I came out with a fantastic haircut. I really did. Not that this is what gave me the job, but it probably contributed to it. I didn’t even get my haircut after that till months afterwards.
In April I paid £25 for another haircut. For the first time in years (maybe since that time in Glasgow) the hairdresser did almost exactly what I had cryptically asked for. It had cost me a fair amount of money, that’s for sure, but it looked great and was a breath of fresh “hair” haha. Don’t worry, I feel terrible for typing that myself.
So this week I shall hopefully be getting my hair cut again. At a proper salon again, but this time I am tempted to ask for a specific hair cut. A short one. A very short one. One that will be close cropped, not require 5 minutes of hair dryer in the morning, and possibly the most daring haircut I’ve ever had since I didn’t have haircuts for months.
I’ll keep you posted.
For my Wood Group interview I went to a Glasgow West End hair salon and paid £30 for a wash, massage, cut and blow dry. And I came out with a fantastic haircut. I really did. Not that this is what gave me the job, but it probably contributed to it. I didn’t even get my haircut after that till months afterwards.
In April I paid £25 for another haircut. For the first time in years (maybe since that time in Glasgow) the hairdresser did almost exactly what I had cryptically asked for. It had cost me a fair amount of money, that’s for sure, but it looked great and was a breath of fresh “hair” haha. Don’t worry, I feel terrible for typing that myself.
So this week I shall hopefully be getting my hair cut again. At a proper salon again, but this time I am tempted to ask for a specific hair cut. A short one. A very short one. One that will be close cropped, not require 5 minutes of hair dryer in the morning, and possibly the most daring haircut I’ve ever had since I didn’t have haircuts for months.
I’ll keep you posted.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Stockholm Syndrome
As people who have read my blog for a while will know, I moved from Glasgow to Aberdeen in the summer of 2007 to start a new job. The magnitude of this decision was actually never really thought about at the time in any real light because it was always intended to be a temporary move, with eyes on a move back to Glasgow at some point. This was because Glasgow was home and was the location of my home base and several tethered things that meant I never really ever moved away. So for nearly a year and a half my home was split between where I lived and where I wanted to be. If ever there was a recipe for disaster that was it.
Early this year circumstance changed and my home base changed for Glasgow-Aberdeen to simply just Aberdeen and for the first time I actually felt like I had moved away. Now I go weeks, almost months at a time from going back to Glasgow and as such I have grown to adopt Aberdeen as my home. It does ask quite an interesting question though – what exactly is home?
So is Aberdeen my home? I’d define home as where the people and things you love are and seeing as I am now grown up there has to be the distinction when saying people I love as I will probably never live back with my parents. So I’d say that Aberdeen is as close a home as I have now, but it’s not my home. It’s not homely enough. Recently in a discussion with a close friend about home and going home, there’s always something for where you grew up to be your “home”. And you can always go back.
I have stated several times that Glasgow is a really nice place to come back to. It’s the city that I grew up in and going back is always fun, like “When’d that bar close?” or “Shit, that building came from no where!” or “Was a Saturday night always this mad on Renfield St?”. Yesterday, whilst driving across the city of Aberdeen after dropping my passenger in the centre of town I for the first time felt comfortable here. I now know where most of the things I want to do are, I’ve done most of the things that Aberdeen has to offer, and no longer feel like a Glasgow ex-pat, a nomad stuck intbetween locations. I am now settle, content, and at ease, probably a lot later than any one else that has moved here to work because of my late commitment to actually staying here after 4pm on a Friday.
Now to find somewhere else to live. Paris, New York, LA, Houston, London. Who’s with me?
Early this year circumstance changed and my home base changed for Glasgow-Aberdeen to simply just Aberdeen and for the first time I actually felt like I had moved away. Now I go weeks, almost months at a time from going back to Glasgow and as such I have grown to adopt Aberdeen as my home. It does ask quite an interesting question though – what exactly is home?
So is Aberdeen my home? I’d define home as where the people and things you love are and seeing as I am now grown up there has to be the distinction when saying people I love as I will probably never live back with my parents. So I’d say that Aberdeen is as close a home as I have now, but it’s not my home. It’s not homely enough. Recently in a discussion with a close friend about home and going home, there’s always something for where you grew up to be your “home”. And you can always go back.
I have stated several times that Glasgow is a really nice place to come back to. It’s the city that I grew up in and going back is always fun, like “When’d that bar close?” or “Shit, that building came from no where!” or “Was a Saturday night always this mad on Renfield St?”. Yesterday, whilst driving across the city of Aberdeen after dropping my passenger in the centre of town I for the first time felt comfortable here. I now know where most of the things I want to do are, I’ve done most of the things that Aberdeen has to offer, and no longer feel like a Glasgow ex-pat, a nomad stuck intbetween locations. I am now settle, content, and at ease, probably a lot later than any one else that has moved here to work because of my late commitment to actually staying here after 4pm on a Friday.
Now to find somewhere else to live. Paris, New York, LA, Houston, London. Who’s with me?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Where'd the year go?
It’s May. It’s actually almost June… where the hell has the year gone? In 2007 I bemoaned the quickness that the year rolled in, and in 2008 it screamed past without even saying hello, and now it’s almost closer to 2010 than it is to the start of 2009 and I am pretty sure I’m not even completely happy with writing “09” in the date on documents, occasionally putting “08” instead. Can someone explain this to me?
"That simple word, of love it's self already died and went away."
Marilyn Manson - Coma Black (Part I, Eden Eye)
I watched the snow lie on the ground, covering the city with a white blanket of silence and chill and I sighed for warmer climes and drier mornings. I sat in my car on the way to work in the dark tapping my foot to the radio shows in a great depression and drove back home from work in the same darkness, never my skin seeing the UV light of natural sunlight, nor the activating Vitamins from the natural light of my life giver. And then I saw the flowers rise from the exhaust pored grass on verges and embankments on the dual carriageways and I slowly watched the temperature go from 2’C high to a maximum of 18’C these days. So now the summer is here and the usual not-quite pitch black night times are back and the mornings are as sunny as midday I can remember last year, which feels almost like yesterday but not quite, like a distant memory of a holiday from a long time ago that you only remember events because of the photographs, and I can’t believe that 2009 is almost half way done, and I ask again – where did the year go?
"That simple word, of love it's self already died and went away."
Marilyn Manson - Coma Black (Part I, Eden Eye)
I watched the snow lie on the ground, covering the city with a white blanket of silence and chill and I sighed for warmer climes and drier mornings. I sat in my car on the way to work in the dark tapping my foot to the radio shows in a great depression and drove back home from work in the same darkness, never my skin seeing the UV light of natural sunlight, nor the activating Vitamins from the natural light of my life giver. And then I saw the flowers rise from the exhaust pored grass on verges and embankments on the dual carriageways and I slowly watched the temperature go from 2’C high to a maximum of 18’C these days. So now the summer is here and the usual not-quite pitch black night times are back and the mornings are as sunny as midday I can remember last year, which feels almost like yesterday but not quite, like a distant memory of a holiday from a long time ago that you only remember events because of the photographs, and I can’t believe that 2009 is almost half way done, and I ask again – where did the year go?
Friday, May 22, 2009
Yankees please note: British doesn't mean Scottish
So we Scots, and yes I still refuse to call myself a Brit because as person with real knowledge of Britain can tell you, British people are not inherently Scottish. The term is rather a localised nationality to distinguish people from the North of the border from those from the south, but it also means a lot more in terms of history and heritage. Just recently for example...
I’d also like to take this time to point out that generally, regardless of where you are in the world, people will not be puzzled when you tell them you’re from Scotland. :]
Re: Ana's blog. :)
I still contest that I have never called her, Noah, Travis nor Matt a "Yankee" beacause I know that it's not equal to a Texan. This might clear the mess up a little.
To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
E.B. White
And, in a more tongue in cheek way of looking at it is thus:
"In English-speaking countries outside the United States, especially in Australia, Canada[12], Ireland[13], New Zealand and Britain, Yankee, almost universally shortened to Yank, is used as a derogatory, playful or referential colloquial term for the U.S. citizens. In certain Commonwealth countries, notably Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, "Yank" has been in common use since at least World War II, when thousands of Americans were stationed in the UK, Australia and New Zealand. Depending on the country, "Yankee" may be considered mildly derogatory."
Oh, those Yanks, huh?
I’d also like to take this time to point out that generally, regardless of where you are in the world, people will not be puzzled when you tell them you’re from Scotland. :]
Re: Ana's blog. :)
I still contest that I have never called her, Noah, Travis nor Matt a "Yankee" beacause I know that it's not equal to a Texan. This might clear the mess up a little.
To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
E.B. White
And, in a more tongue in cheek way of looking at it is thus:
"In English-speaking countries outside the United States, especially in Australia, Canada[12], Ireland[13], New Zealand and Britain, Yankee, almost universally shortened to Yank, is used as a derogatory, playful or referential colloquial term for the U.S. citizens. In certain Commonwealth countries, notably Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, "Yank" has been in common use since at least World War II, when thousands of Americans were stationed in the UK, Australia and New Zealand. Depending on the country, "Yankee" may be considered mildly derogatory."
Oh, those Yanks, huh?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I'm pregnant and the baby is an idea.
“Take up one idea. Make that one idea your life - think of it, dream of it, live on that idea. Let the brain, muscles, nerves, every part of your body, be full of that idea, and just leave every other idea alone. This is the way to success, that is [the] way great spiritual giants are produced.”
Swami Vivekananda
Early this week I dreamt that I was pregnant. Not like those dreams where a songwriter has a fully formed song waltz into their mind, nor in the same way a line of traffic follows the rules of a red light, this dream was bordering on a nightmare were it not for the disastrously comedic theme that ran through the dream, ending with my appearance on a talk show. I slowly came round, back to reality, with a slight bump (pun intended) and realised how lucky I was to not be up the duff.
Several people, namely Ana and Steve, have both asked me “Who the father…er, Mother… erhm… was?” and there was no answer in the dream, so I’ve decided that it was an immaculate conception. Not exactly the same as the Virgin Mary but close enough to make a joke about it on a blog at a later date. If there had been a parent involved, it would’ve been a woman… though the logistics of this make my head spin.
The dream, being close to a nightmare, was something I was pretty sure a man rarely dreams about – not only because it’s quite impossible for a man to become pregnant, not having the necessary plumbing down there, but also it’s such an esoteric concept, a man having a baby.
Then I Googled it and a multitude of websites gave me reasons why I had dreamed about it. Here are the top three:
“Pregnancy often represents new growth in your life, growing creativity. The baby kicking inside could represent the idea that your creation or creative potential is trying to kick you to get your attention.”
“This may also represent the birth of a new idea, direction, project or goal.If you are really pregnant and having this dream, then it represents your anxieties about the pregnancy.”
“The Pregnancy dream may represent your real fears about falling pregnant. Dreams are also often influenced by our bodies so are aware if there is a condition.”
Erhm, yeah. But there is a little bit of interesting truth to these assessments because there are things that I am looking to, changes and stuff, leaps of faith (so to speak). Maybe I am getting worried about falling pregnant but… no wait, I forget sometimes that I can’t. it’s something I will just have to deal with. But the growth in my life is quite accurate. I have finally taken the plunge and joined a gym. Yep, I am now officially Working Class™. Also, I’ve been turning several things over in my head for quite some time and all that stuff.
So apart from it being total bollocks, it makes sense. Now to find the father and make him pay… I mean mother, obviously.
Swami Vivekananda
Early this week I dreamt that I was pregnant. Not like those dreams where a songwriter has a fully formed song waltz into their mind, nor in the same way a line of traffic follows the rules of a red light, this dream was bordering on a nightmare were it not for the disastrously comedic theme that ran through the dream, ending with my appearance on a talk show. I slowly came round, back to reality, with a slight bump (pun intended) and realised how lucky I was to not be up the duff.
Several people, namely Ana and Steve, have both asked me “Who the father…er, Mother… erhm… was?” and there was no answer in the dream, so I’ve decided that it was an immaculate conception. Not exactly the same as the Virgin Mary but close enough to make a joke about it on a blog at a later date. If there had been a parent involved, it would’ve been a woman… though the logistics of this make my head spin.
The dream, being close to a nightmare, was something I was pretty sure a man rarely dreams about – not only because it’s quite impossible for a man to become pregnant, not having the necessary plumbing down there, but also it’s such an esoteric concept, a man having a baby.
Then I Googled it and a multitude of websites gave me reasons why I had dreamed about it. Here are the top three:
“Pregnancy often represents new growth in your life, growing creativity. The baby kicking inside could represent the idea that your creation or creative potential is trying to kick you to get your attention.”
“This may also represent the birth of a new idea, direction, project or goal.If you are really pregnant and having this dream, then it represents your anxieties about the pregnancy.”
“The Pregnancy dream may represent your real fears about falling pregnant. Dreams are also often influenced by our bodies so are aware if there is a condition.”
Erhm, yeah. But there is a little bit of interesting truth to these assessments because there are things that I am looking to, changes and stuff, leaps of faith (so to speak). Maybe I am getting worried about falling pregnant but… no wait, I forget sometimes that I can’t. it’s something I will just have to deal with. But the growth in my life is quite accurate. I have finally taken the plunge and joined a gym. Yep, I am now officially Working Class™. Also, I’ve been turning several things over in my head for quite some time and all that stuff.
So apart from it being total bollocks, it makes sense. Now to find the father and make him pay… I mean mother, obviously.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Soul mates
“One theory of soulmates, presented by in Plato's Symposium, is that humans originally consisted of four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces, but Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spend their lives searching for the other half to complete them”
I love this concept. It is quite romantic. It is, of course, total bullshit, as the Greek Gods are not historical fact, but I quite like it as an example of what a soulmate should be – almost like the other half of you, the part that is missing, and the part that should be always with you and that you should be with for hundreds of thousands of years. When doing some research on the subject I found some simply amazing pages that are a guide to helping you find your soulmate, and the internet has not failed again. Truly amazing.
If we accept that such a thing exists, that for every person alive on the planet there is at least one other person that is absolutely perfect for them and that will mesh like perfectly aligned cogs and gears, and we also assume that at some point in the future they will cross paths and meet each other, how do we know that they will actually understand and grasp the magnitude of this meeting?
I suppose that’s the scary thing, that maybe you’d meet your other half of you and have to let them go because you’re already with someone that you love or that the circumstances are just not going to work. The other side of this argument is that how do you know that you don’t have to always be wishing to trade up? The way that it’s set up at the moment is the ease of the new that is always available to us. For example there’s always something better out there – a better TV, or car, and the world is positioned to make us think that this will improve our lives. And in a way, this feeling of upgrading almost always enters the we look at love and life thinking that something that we don’t have will make it better when it might be otherwise.
So what I am saying is that whilst Plato’s concept is as beautiful as it is tragic, there is an important point that is missed from his concept, that maybe we will find fulfillment in something lesser than our soul mate. The risks that we may have to take to find the person we need might be too great and that they don’t match up with the potential gain… or maybe they do.
I love this concept. It is quite romantic. It is, of course, total bullshit, as the Greek Gods are not historical fact, but I quite like it as an example of what a soulmate should be – almost like the other half of you, the part that is missing, and the part that should be always with you and that you should be with for hundreds of thousands of years. When doing some research on the subject I found some simply amazing pages that are a guide to helping you find your soulmate, and the internet has not failed again. Truly amazing.
If we accept that such a thing exists, that for every person alive on the planet there is at least one other person that is absolutely perfect for them and that will mesh like perfectly aligned cogs and gears, and we also assume that at some point in the future they will cross paths and meet each other, how do we know that they will actually understand and grasp the magnitude of this meeting?
I suppose that’s the scary thing, that maybe you’d meet your other half of you and have to let them go because you’re already with someone that you love or that the circumstances are just not going to work. The other side of this argument is that how do you know that you don’t have to always be wishing to trade up? The way that it’s set up at the moment is the ease of the new that is always available to us. For example there’s always something better out there – a better TV, or car, and the world is positioned to make us think that this will improve our lives. And in a way, this feeling of upgrading almost always enters the we look at love and life thinking that something that we don’t have will make it better when it might be otherwise.
So what I am saying is that whilst Plato’s concept is as beautiful as it is tragic, there is an important point that is missed from his concept, that maybe we will find fulfillment in something lesser than our soul mate. The risks that we may have to take to find the person we need might be too great and that they don’t match up with the potential gain… or maybe they do.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Holiday 2009: NYC IV - American TV and the Urge to Not Buy Everything.
The following post is presented by $5 Footlong sub! Only at Subway. Eat Fresh!
In the country of the free and the good there is a problem that I have encountered. Sure, my experience of the USA was slightly less impressionable than that of someone from that hallowed country, but the short exposure I had completely convinced me that the BBC is the greatest thing on the planet. The reason for this was the difference that I noticed between the great American television industry and the ludicrously over the top advertising levels that made me vomit green backs so hard my throat was burned from the smell the Federal Reserve were watching me with mirth. This joke was brought to you by Nissan. Locate your local dealer at Nissan.com.
The News
Watching 24 Hour rolling news is something you only ever do on holiday and the USA have it down to a tee. Shouting anchors, endless outpours of shit analysis, labouring points over and over again until the loose all impact, and importantly using flashing graphics to buzz up the credit crunch, or the swine flu thingmy, or the collapse of a grand institution such as Chrysler.
The Sports
The team line ups brought to you by Taco Bell? Wow, that's advertising penetration. I mean you can't move the sponsorship. Even the advert breaks were sponsored by some company! And I like the NBA, being a sport I understand, but the sheer amount of time outs on a live broadcast and the number of times I heard "presented by ANOTHER COMPANY" I was ready to stand up and sign Rule Britannia if only to remind myself of the beauty of ad-less TV.
THIS BLOG POST WILL CONTINUE FOLLOWING THESE MESSAGES.
The Adverts
Basically you seem to be allowed to say another competitors product is crap. And that your's is better. And even say the brand. That's... mental.
The Good Things
All things said they have gave me the following so I can't too hard on them.
The Wire, X Files, 30 Rock, NYPD Blue, Arrested Development, Heroes, House, 24, Flight of the Conchords, Sopranos, etc etc. And we have Susan Boyle.
In the country of the free and the good there is a problem that I have encountered. Sure, my experience of the USA was slightly less impressionable than that of someone from that hallowed country, but the short exposure I had completely convinced me that the BBC is the greatest thing on the planet. The reason for this was the difference that I noticed between the great American television industry and the ludicrously over the top advertising levels that made me vomit green backs so hard my throat was burned from the smell the Federal Reserve were watching me with mirth. This joke was brought to you by Nissan. Locate your local dealer at Nissan.com.
The News
Watching 24 Hour rolling news is something you only ever do on holiday and the USA have it down to a tee. Shouting anchors, endless outpours of shit analysis, labouring points over and over again until the loose all impact, and importantly using flashing graphics to buzz up the credit crunch, or the swine flu thingmy, or the collapse of a grand institution such as Chrysler.
The Sports
The team line ups brought to you by Taco Bell? Wow, that's advertising penetration. I mean you can't move the sponsorship. Even the advert breaks were sponsored by some company! And I like the NBA, being a sport I understand, but the sheer amount of time outs on a live broadcast and the number of times I heard "presented by ANOTHER COMPANY" I was ready to stand up and sign Rule Britannia if only to remind myself of the beauty of ad-less TV.
THIS BLOG POST WILL CONTINUE FOLLOWING THESE MESSAGES.
The Adverts
Basically you seem to be allowed to say another competitors product is crap. And that your's is better. And even say the brand. That's... mental.
The Good Things
All things said they have gave me the following so I can't too hard on them.
The Wire, X Files, 30 Rock, NYPD Blue, Arrested Development, Heroes, House, 24, Flight of the Conchords, Sopranos, etc etc. And we have Susan Boyle.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Holiday 2009: NYC III – Lightning Strikes, Central Park Squirrels and Directional Assistance.
The Top of the Rock is the observatory at the top of the Rockefeller Center (Word is telling me that it should be “centre”, God Save the Queen) and after being up the Empire State the day before it wasn’t so much a different view we were looking for, but the look uptown at the park from the building, it being several block further north (20 or so, I think), means a real damn good look at the man made massive plain of grass and trees sculptured into perfection.
Entering the Rock we skipped past a massive long queue of Japanese tourists that we were lucky to get in front of as, unlike our trip up the Empire State, we had left it to late in the day and the queue was getting longer and longer the more time we were wasting outside. After a rather circle-jerk style video about how amazing the building and plaza is, and a video about something called a “Rockette” and Radio City, we entered the elevator. A rather cool glass ceiling and blue lights lit the path way up to the top of the building. The amazing part of this was the American tourists that had jumped into our elevator, with their exclaims of “awesome” and “sweet” punctuating the popping of my ears as the numbers increased to 69 or something. Maybe more.
Entering the Rock we skipped past a massive long queue of Japanese tourists that we were lucky to get in front of as, unlike our trip up the Empire State, we had left it to late in the day and the queue was getting longer and longer the more time we were wasting outside. After a rather circle-jerk style video about how amazing the building and plaza is, and a video about something called a “Rockette” and Radio City, we entered the elevator. A rather cool glass ceiling and blue lights lit the path way up to the top of the building. The amazing part of this was the American tourists that had jumped into our elevator, with their exclaims of “awesome” and “sweet” punctuating the popping of my ears as the numbers increased to 69 or something. Maybe more.
At the top we were greeted not with an amazing view, but with the drilling sound of rain. Rain like none seen before. It was piercing and, even inside the observation deck, it felt wet. We had go outside and into the wind and rain we stepped, taking the rain in our stride being Scottish and also being outfitted with a Gortex jacket I was sorted. Nothing was going to stop me from going to the top. Until the lightning starting hitting buildings and causing the rumbling of thunder. Steve and I both dived for the floor, being the only other two things at the top of the building, apart from the puny look lightning rod and the broadcast antennas.
Back on the ground we took shelter from the rain inside the Museum of Modern Art which I was looking forward to immensely. Getting in for free appeased Steve after having to pay $15 each for the Metropolitan (when we could've blagged it for just one dollar) and we toured the mad cap sculptures and paintings for near on two hours. I was amazed as modern art is something that I really like - it challenges me more than the paintings and sculptures of old. I appreciate a Rembrandt or a Gogh, but a Pollock or a Raithko will make me think more about the peice because it is harder to grasp. For example, Warhol's famous Marylin Munroe portrait was there for all to see and it was as amazing as I expected it to be - as was the Campbell's Soup Cans peice. Steven enjoyed the MoMA more but was mystified at some of the installations. Like a flourescent tube at 45' angle.
Central Park had our attention twice. Being close the the Met we spent a short while sitting looking a pond with ducks and geese on it. A man approached us and proceeded to tell us that his Grandfather was "scotch" [sic]. The view of the tall builds, the squirrels immune to the traffic noise and the too perfect placement of tree reminded me somewhat of Sim City and the fervour I would place parks near buildings. Central park, however tranquil and nice it looks, lacked the essence of a real outdoor area.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Holiday 2009: NYC II - Tall Buildings, Gorgeous Americans and the Dirty Subway
The days were spent wandering around the city looking like tourists. Steve was convinced that we could pass for real New Yorkers if someone was walking past us, but I wasn’t so sure – I mean… I looked cool in my checked shirt and wide geek glasses, that’s for sure, and Steve’s close cropped hairstyle was very American, I think they’d’ve spotted us a mile off. This is because of Up.
Looking up, the sky was scrapped by long gleaming futuristic buildings that mock the large expanse of the sky that become the canvas of a thousand clouds avoiding collision with the man made cathedrals of capitalism. The buildings are of awe inspiring architecture, from the red brick buildings with amazing fire exits that look like they have been lifted directly from the TV and placed there (er… it’s the other way round, obviously) to the stunning glass and steel monoliths that rise higher than the highest building in Britain by almost 200 feet, and in a higher frequency than is humanely possible to imagine.
The only thing that was better to look at than the buildings and the quintessential looking New York street was the quintessential ladies that populated the street. It might have been the mix of two, single male men on tour in New York, the summery weather revealing more of the female form to the eye than is seen in the UK recently, or it might just be the fact that there is a whole lot of attractive people living in this place. But seriously, the beauty of some of them was shocking – in fact, it became almost a joke. After the first mention of the amazing ladies, every time we saw one that mutually tickled our fancy, we exchanged a knowing nod.
Underneath this fancy exterior was a maze of rat like tunnels and routes mapped out by a scarily mad tunnelling mastermind. The tunnels crafted into the bedrock underneath Manhattan and on top of Queens and Brooklyn are numerous and confusing, as is the line naming convention. Unlike London, where each line has a name and colour, several lines share colours in NYC, as well as routes and platforms, as well as destinations. It took a little time to figure out the difference between the 7 and the 7, denoted by a diamond shape around the number rather than a circle. Also, more annoyingly, certain trains don’t run on days and the signage in the stations left little to be desired. For example, the key piece of information that unlocks the key to Manhattan is that the Avenues run South North and the Streets run East West. This means that 1st is more East than 4th, and 56th is more northern that 42nd. This helps when you are on the streets, meaning that you know if you are heading the wrong way after only one block.
The problem occurs when the signs on the subway say that the exit is on 34th and 7th, or Broadway and Canal, or… well, you see the problem. 34th St station is huge, crossing with Herald Square – but the square is bounded by several other streets, and to know which one you should come on it almost impossible, meaning that we would most likely be heading the wrong way for a block before realising and doubling back. And turning around 180 degrees on a NYC sidewalk (pavement, God Save the Queen) is the worst, and most touristy thing anyone can do.
So whilst Steve and I looked the part if we knew which street we were on, and which way we were going, every time you caught us gazing up the glass sheer structures, or ogling at the pretty girls, or turning around on the street, or even getting the Tourist approved map out (one with the streets in detail but with no subway stops and one with the subway stops but no street detail, good one guys) you could tell we were not from around here. So why did we keep getting asked questions like “Is the A running today?” or “is this the platform for SoHo?” or “Does this go up town?”.
Looking up, the sky was scrapped by long gleaming futuristic buildings that mock the large expanse of the sky that become the canvas of a thousand clouds avoiding collision with the man made cathedrals of capitalism. The buildings are of awe inspiring architecture, from the red brick buildings with amazing fire exits that look like they have been lifted directly from the TV and placed there (er… it’s the other way round, obviously) to the stunning glass and steel monoliths that rise higher than the highest building in Britain by almost 200 feet, and in a higher frequency than is humanely possible to imagine.
The only thing that was better to look at than the buildings and the quintessential looking New York street was the quintessential ladies that populated the street. It might have been the mix of two, single male men on tour in New York, the summery weather revealing more of the female form to the eye than is seen in the UK recently, or it might just be the fact that there is a whole lot of attractive people living in this place. But seriously, the beauty of some of them was shocking – in fact, it became almost a joke. After the first mention of the amazing ladies, every time we saw one that mutually tickled our fancy, we exchanged a knowing nod.Underneath this fancy exterior was a maze of rat like tunnels and routes mapped out by a scarily mad tunnelling mastermind. The tunnels crafted into the bedrock underneath Manhattan and on top of Queens and Brooklyn are numerous and confusing, as is the line naming convention. Unlike London, where each line has a name and colour, several lines share colours in NYC, as well as routes and platforms, as well as destinations. It took a little time to figure out the difference between the 7 and the 7, denoted by a diamond shape around the number rather than a circle. Also, more annoyingly, certain trains don’t run on days and the signage in the stations left little to be desired. For example, the key piece of information that unlocks the key to Manhattan is that the Avenues run South North and the Streets run East West. This means that 1st is more East than 4th, and 56th is more northern that 42nd. This helps when you are on the streets, meaning that you know if you are heading the wrong way after only one block.
The problem occurs when the signs on the subway say that the exit is on 34th and 7th, or Broadway and Canal, or… well, you see the problem. 34th St station is huge, crossing with Herald Square – but the square is bounded by several other streets, and to know which one you should come on it almost impossible, meaning that we would most likely be heading the wrong way for a block before realising and doubling back. And turning around 180 degrees on a NYC sidewalk (pavement, God Save the Queen) is the worst, and most touristy thing anyone can do.
So whilst Steve and I looked the part if we knew which street we were on, and which way we were going, every time you caught us gazing up the glass sheer structures, or ogling at the pretty girls, or turning around on the street, or even getting the Tourist approved map out (one with the streets in detail but with no subway stops and one with the subway stops but no street detail, good one guys) you could tell we were not from around here. So why did we keep getting asked questions like “Is the A running today?” or “is this the platform for SoHo?” or “Does this go up town?”.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Holiday 2009: NYC I – Getting On, Getting There and Getting In.
Steven and I went to New York City, New York last week for a short but needed break from the monotony of sitting at a desk in front of a computer slowly declining our eyesight from various Excel spreadsheets and Word documents refreshing slowly onto our retina. The break was needed because my last holiday, last years trip to Turkey, was last year, and I hadn’t had a break from work for any length of time since a three day training course in March and that’s supposed to still be work.
So at 5.20am I left my parents house and in a daze picked Steve up from his mum’s house, and later we were standing in a queue at Glasgow Airport waiting for our passports to be scanned. After some question that I was tremendously worried about getting wrong (“Have you any bombs in your bag?” “Ye……No.”) we were sitting in the departure lounge waiting to board the flight.
Until… we got the call that they needed to get 15 people willing to give up their seat and transfer via London. This would add a whopping 8 hours to the flight, to which they would compensate us by way of a $300... no wait, $400 voucher. They were obviously getting more worried by the minute that no one would be getting off. I considered it, with the chance of getting a first class upgrade and free drinks part of my bargaining tools, we finally were allowed to board once they had managed to find some idiots who gave their seat up.
On the plane we were right at the back, having little legroom to move about. Excited by the prospect of being in a real city I suddenly realised that I might not get in. You see, even though we have a “special relationship” the UK traveller and the US state are not that friendly anymore. I had to email them in advance to say “Yo, I want to come” and then on the plane fill out two of the shittiest forms ever devised by a man. The first is the blue “Customs Declaration” from that asks me if I have brought anything into the country I plan to leave behind. This reminded me of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy joke about the planet that requires all tourists to offset their impact on the planet… like getting a receipt every time you do a poo. The second, and the one I made several errors on, is the Green One, the IW-95 or something, where it is confusingly a visa waiver form, but then asks me later on for my visa details. I only made three errors, mistakenly saying my sex was 09/09/85.
Once these are filled out we are then carted into a massive football pitch sized room at Newark Liberty (making me laugh at the Grand Theft Auto like name) where all manner of nationalities are lined up awaiting the moment of reckoning.
Here I am asked where I am staying etc and what I am doing here etc. But I also have to surrender my finger prints. Interestingly why are people so worried about that happening over here? I don’t do any wrong so I don’t worry how has my fingerprints… but the furore made over the ID cards in this country are ridiculous.
Anyway, luckily they let us in and suddenly, we were standing on US soil in the state of New Jersey. And in several minutes time we were using our dollars to get from NJ to NY, and later to NYC. And there, after some fumbling about in 34th and Herald subway station, we were at the Hotel unwinding and gearing up for some sampling of the New York lifestyle, and then found out the Manchester United – Arsenal Champions League game was on ESPN2, so we watched that. 3600miles to sit and watch Champions league football commentated on by an American-Scotch that had a cool accent and an Irish that didn’t know his Kaka from his Offside.
So at 5.20am I left my parents house and in a daze picked Steve up from his mum’s house, and later we were standing in a queue at Glasgow Airport waiting for our passports to be scanned. After some question that I was tremendously worried about getting wrong (“Have you any bombs in your bag?” “Ye……No.”) we were sitting in the departure lounge waiting to board the flight.
Until… we got the call that they needed to get 15 people willing to give up their seat and transfer via London. This would add a whopping 8 hours to the flight, to which they would compensate us by way of a $300... no wait, $400 voucher. They were obviously getting more worried by the minute that no one would be getting off. I considered it, with the chance of getting a first class upgrade and free drinks part of my bargaining tools, we finally were allowed to board once they had managed to find some idiots who gave their seat up.
On the plane we were right at the back, having little legroom to move about. Excited by the prospect of being in a real city I suddenly realised that I might not get in. You see, even though we have a “special relationship” the UK traveller and the US state are not that friendly anymore. I had to email them in advance to say “Yo, I want to come” and then on the plane fill out two of the shittiest forms ever devised by a man. The first is the blue “Customs Declaration” from that asks me if I have brought anything into the country I plan to leave behind. This reminded me of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy joke about the planet that requires all tourists to offset their impact on the planet… like getting a receipt every time you do a poo. The second, and the one I made several errors on, is the Green One, the IW-95 or something, where it is confusingly a visa waiver form, but then asks me later on for my visa details. I only made three errors, mistakenly saying my sex was 09/09/85.
Once these are filled out we are then carted into a massive football pitch sized room at Newark Liberty (making me laugh at the Grand Theft Auto like name) where all manner of nationalities are lined up awaiting the moment of reckoning.
Here I am asked where I am staying etc and what I am doing here etc. But I also have to surrender my finger prints. Interestingly why are people so worried about that happening over here? I don’t do any wrong so I don’t worry how has my fingerprints… but the furore made over the ID cards in this country are ridiculous.
Anyway, luckily they let us in and suddenly, we were standing on US soil in the state of New Jersey. And in several minutes time we were using our dollars to get from NJ to NY, and later to NYC. And there, after some fumbling about in 34th and Herald subway station, we were at the Hotel unwinding and gearing up for some sampling of the New York lifestyle, and then found out the Manchester United – Arsenal Champions League game was on ESPN2, so we watched that. 3600miles to sit and watch Champions league football commentated on by an American-Scotch that had a cool accent and an Irish that didn’t know his Kaka from his Offside.
Coming Up:
Part II: Tall Buildings, Gorgeous Americans and the Dirty Subway
Part III: Lightning Strikes, Central Park Squirrels and Directional Assistance
Part IV: Empire Versus the Colonies
Part V: The TV, American style.
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