The Holiday 3: Untitled

Anyone who has ever been on a package holiday will be able to empathise with this blog post, and other who have not, will surely be able to sympathise with my particular stance on this watery subject.

When on Holiday I enjoy watching people. Indeed, when I am in Britain I enjoy watching people, it is not a holiday exclusive activity. With the obvious mixing of nationalities which only happen in this situations a wide range of new types of people to watch are available, making almost 50% of the pleasure of being holiday in this activity alone. In particular, the Germans are a very nice nationality to watch.

This is because they are so diametrically opposite to the British ways of social interaction.


This is an activity that the British are mocked by the rest of the world for, but in any event, a good queue is something that no matter how hard we try we cannot not adhere to. When waiting to get onto the Catamaran San Frangisk the British members of the party, who we had arrived with from our hotel, formed an orderly queue in the direction of the passport office which we required to file through to enter Italy. This was formed out of nothing, with no signs saying "Queue this way", and no instructions to order ourselves, we just did it. When the Germans and Croatians (and the Russians, Swedes, Slovenians, Hungarians and Bosnians) arrived after us, they just piled through our routine line, and the majority of our queue were aghast at the sheer unfathomable queue debauchery that had taken place.

Our OCD need to order the queues in time descending order* is something that over hundreds of years of order we have became proud of, and even do it without noticing it.

I think, that if Hitler was a dinner guest he would be very chatty, with his Grand Plan, and Final Solution would be a rather heated topic of discussion, but when it came to waiting in line for the bathroom untold chaos would commence.

Sun Lounger Etiquette

When on Holiday the hotels all have guidelines about beach towels on loungers at the pool side, and the majority of them note that you "must not place towels to save your place if you do no intend to use them". The British, in the same fashion we have for queues, enjoy adhering to rules such as these, out of respect for the person who spent time and effort to think how to write such a rule, and the disaster effects of miss use of the responsibility given to honour those said rules.

The Germans, who I am beginning to pick on slightly, do not known this rule. It was written in German, so no defence there. They just place their towels, head off for a few hours, and return expecting the towels to still be there. Normally this would only be slightly annoying, but when the commander a section of loungers around an umbrella, the British take a stance.

That Umbrella is free game.

I watched many people do silent tango's over an umbrella and sun loungers, which could have easily been solved, by just taking the things, and talking loudly in English when they start talking loudly in German.

Unrelated, by a smidgen

I started watching Band of Brothers two weeks ago, and just finished watching it. The ninth episode, "Why We Fight", shows the 101st Airborne finding a concentration camp towards the end of the second World War. It was the first time I can remember actually feeling some kind of emotion at anything on the television, with a lump in my throat. It still amazes me to read that the rest of the world had no idea of Hitlers Final Solution, and is not something to be made light of, which I did above.

The war(s) , and the men who fought and died for their country's sake, for King and country, and everyone who reads this owes them much more than I can write here. My point is this; I think that if we were called to fight right now, I would be slightly inclined to refuse (you can use the excuse that you are a Quaker, which is a dream ticket to a relaxing time on the home front or in a prison) because I have not encountered a risk as great as the German invasions. If one such as that was to happen, I think I would fight, but how many of today's youth would volunteer as the Easy Company did in Band of Brothers.

The Tale of Rock Steady 6: Ronseal.

So, I'll get out of the way first. I won a chance to buy two tickets for the LiveEarth gig in Hyde Park on the 7th July 2007, and I cannot go. So, I am opening it up to the first person who can email me ( gets the text message instructions. It costs £55 per ticket, and it is a rather nice line up. Only 60000 tickets are available out of the 220'000 that entered, so I suppose I am lucky.

Due to negotiations with certain parties, the offer has been recinded. Rar!

Onto this weeks tale of Rock Steady. Wow! What a rocking show! Lostprophets were amazing, with heavy riffs, banter with the audience, and large fights in the pits. I was backstage, and they were all taking cocaine off groupies backs, shagging each other, kissing random stewards, even I got my balls licked.

Actually,I am sure you have worked out, I did not steward Lostprophets. No siree. Sometimes I wish I would end up doing what I was told I would be doing.

I stewarded a book signing. Rock and Roll.

I was asked to work on the other side of the SECC with Paolo Coelho, an esteemed author (of which I had never heard of, and had to admit this to himself) of many books. After some muddled management trying to figure out how best to sort this whole thing out (which gave me a few moments to speak to hima dn his staff)I was then put on the doors inside the auditorium and listened to him talk about his life and other things. It was really interesting, but not the gig that I was expecting. I got away at 9pm, but will be paid till 10.30pm anyways, so its all good.

I'll tell you one of his jokes. A man lives in Italy, and goes to bed one night, and in his dream whilst he is asleep, an angel comes to him. She warns him of "a great flood" and God will keep you safe, you will survive. He wakes up and sees that it is raining; it rains for days upon end. On the third day of this rain, a group of police men come to his house.
"We are evacuating the village" they say.
"I am not leaving. God said I would be fine, and I have faith" the man says.
On the fifth day, the water level has risen to above the first floor, and they arrive with a boat.
"Come on, you must come with us or you will surely die!" they plead.
"No, you are asking me to question my faith. God said I would be fine through an angel coming to me in my dreams. I will stay."
The water rises to above the second floor, and in a final attempt to rescue him, the arrive in a helicopter and throw a rope at him.
"Pick up the rope! You will surely die if you stay!"
"No, I am not moving. I have faith in the Lord."
So, he drowns.

Upon arriving at heaven, he is bewildered.
"How can I be dead?" he proclaims to St Peter.
"Well, there was a flood..." explains St Peter.
"But I got a message from God, from an angel that I would survive! I cannot come in to paradise if God is a liar."
St Peter would not normally take this sort of blasphemy, but humours it. "I shall check with God." he says.
St Peter returns, "I have spoken to God, and he said that yes, he sent you an omen in the form of an angel, who did say you would survive."
"Yes? So how can he explain my being here" exclaims the man, at his wits end.

"Well," says St Peter, "He also sent you three fucking rescue parties too."

Note: I editted this post a second time because I noticed that I mentioned his "wife" which is in correct, as actually it turns out he is a bit of an occultist and probably bisexual. Research about him revealed some rather intersting tidbits about his life, of which he made no mention of, and I have managed to change my perception of him rather dramatically.

The Tale of Rock Steady 2: Racism and Twatness as Standard.


Okay, it has been a while since my last post, considering in relative terms since I posted 5 items in a few days. Certain things have happened since that horrible weekend of last with too much drinking. Namely, a more recent weekend of heavy drinking, but we will get to that all in good time.

Tuesday Night: Champions League

It now seems an age since the Champions League match at Celtic Park, but it is because I had very little time to write anything bout it, and unfortunately nothing much happened to be honest. Upon arrival I was put into the "reserve" team, where we sort of wander aimlessly around until we were needed. It being such an important night, with a full stadium, the ticket machine decided to pack in meaning that every fan wanting to get in would have to rip their own ticket and hand over the bar coded section, as the machine which reads them was having a break in Thailand. All manner of people entered in turnstile that I was put to after some frantic shouting over the radios, some of which were drunk, some of which were Irish, and some of which were trying to blag their way in. Like the little boy from Inverness who "Had lost ma dad's season ticket, but I know where my seat is". I explained that season ticket holders do not get their ticket for free, they have to apply for them (and possibly pay for them). The Police took him away.

Friday Night: Parkhead and the Captain of the Ship

t was Lyndsey's 21st party thing, and after the shenanigans of the Friday previous, Hyder had blagged an invite. We all arrived with bells and whistles on, heading into the Captain's Table, which is a hospitality suite in the middle of Parkhead. Very nice surroundings, with a fantastic view of the pitch. It was a free bar for a short while, and Hyder and I approached the bar wondering what to order. It became clear, and obvious, that the only thing on tap was Carling; Celtics main sponsor. Now, Carling is pish. Worse than what I was previously saying about Miller (see Horrific Friday), though to be fair these must be the premium Carling barrels as they only slightly made me want to wash my mouth out with shite to get a better taste. I got rather sauced, so it was a good night, though made sour after one of Lyndsey's friends got to go to the trophy room and touch the actual SPL trophy, and when Lyndsey asked on my behalf, we were told it was not allowed. Bastard and damnation!

Saturday: Italians and the International Sign for "Fuck Off".

was at Murrayfield for the humping that was the rugby. I was put into the West Stand, or the Main Stand, or "Purple" as the Edinburgh stadiums for some fucked up reason have colour coded sections to make things even more complicated. Initially, I was placed into Vomitory 17 on the lower section, meaning I was right at the tunnel. Once the turnstiles were opened, people rushed in to get autographs and the like. Being this was a rugby crowd, I was not too bothered. They were not being too annoying, the players were chatting and the stairs were not blocked. My supervisor thought differently, and asked me to move them off the stairs. Now, there is only so much you can say to an Italian who is covered in green, red and white paint, waving a flag and has a blue wig on. The supervisor went away... and returned with two other stewards and told me to go to Vomitory 13. I was being relived! I stood and watch the replacements struggle and eventually give up with glee. That bastard should have said something to me first, rather than make me seem (and feel) like a fool. It also became aware that not only was he a twat, but also a racist. The two stewards were working in 13 and 11, which means he missed out 15 when looking for help. There was a black guy working in 15, and even he noticed it. We exchanged glances later on after he got the Police in to send them back to the stands.

At night it was the turn of ABC again to see me and Colin get rather drunk. I was so canned in fact that I got the taxi to stop for me at Giffnock Police station so I could "walk home". What was I thinking...

Coming Soon...
The Interim Report: The Final Verdict
96 Dorchester Avenue: Rod Stewart