Travel Is Fun

Don’t you just hate travelling on business at this time of year? Especially flying. This week I had to fly from Manchester to Amsterdam. As ever at this time of year the great unwashed are allowing their kids to bunk off school in order to take advantage of cheap flights and holidays to places like Spain, Turkey, and various other all-inclusive destinations strewn with British Bars (or Irish Pubs at the better places), advertising “English Breakfast”, “Sunday lunch with real Yorkshire pudding”, “karaoke”, “Sky Sports” and “Happy Hour”. You can spot people on the flight for Bodrum a mile off. Blackpool abroad. Morecambe in the sun.

Consequently, the airport is like something reminiscent of the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Aliens of all shapes and sizes everywhere you look. It is filled with shaven-headed blokes with earrings, gold chains, signet rings, “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, and “mother” or “Kylie” tattooed on their arms. The women look as if they have just come off set from a Britney Spears video – after her breakdown. They sport bleached blonde hair. They have orange fake tans or have blue-veined cellulite peeping out of mini skirts. Their bellies hang over the front of their jeans, while their thongs and ubiquitous tattoos are all too evident at the back. And, how any of them manage to get through security with all those body piercings. Jailbait 14 year old daughters, Goth teenage sons, and grizzling sprogs who have been forced to get up ahead of the time that they would normally have switched off their X-box and gone to sleep. Everyone is suffering the effects of sleep deprivation and nicotine withdrawal. Personally, it makes me feel like taking up smoking myself. The viewing figures for Jeremy Kyle must take one hell of a dip at this time of year. And, at least the benefit offices will be quieter.

There is a total lack of fashion awareness. All are inappropriately dressed for the beach with flip flops or white stilettos, shorts and football tops – Manchester United, Liverpool or “Engerland” in the main. And, that is both sexes. And there is nothing so attractive as a middle-aged man in a beer-belly hugging football shirt. Oh, except, that is, for the sight of a middle-aged woman in a beer-belly hugging football shirt.

Everywhere you look there are fat unattractive couples with fat unattractive kids in tow. The queue at Burger King is longer than the queue at security. And the bars are full of people quaffing pints of lager and vodka cocktails. Even at 6am! Mind you, all of that heaving flesh and cleavage is difficult to take so early without the benefit of alcohol.

Everyone has a mobile phone clasped against their ear while wrestling with their bags of duty free and pulling an inappropriately sized piece of so-called hand luggage behind them with the same piece of Christmas tinsel wrapped around the handle. None can read the flight display screens from a distance of more than two feet. They are all wandering aimlessly, seemingly blind to all directional signs and deaf to all announcements. “Could the person who has left their small child and their brain at security please return to collect it.” “Would Mr Skally travelling to Puerto Plata please make his way out of the bar.”

The only redeeming feature is the check-in staff. They might not give you a safety demonstration but at least they get their uniforms from the same shop as the air stewardesses.

Oh and great, I have to fly back later tonight. I cannot wait to get home.

Sting in the Tale

It's a pun. If not very punny.....

On Tuesday evening this week I took C to see The Police in concert at the Manchester Evening News Arena. This would not have been my first choice for a concert, but it was a birthday wish for C, a life long Police fan who had, unfortunately, managed to avoid seeing them live in their hay days of the 70s and 80s. And she fancies Sting. She fancies Sting big time.

As it happens, the concert was 8 months late. It had been postponed on the original date because Sting had a sore throat. Bless. This added to my general dislike of the guy, putting him firmly in the camp of wuss/big girl's blouse. This, being just one of the labels that I have tagged onto Mr Gordon Sumner - "Destroyer of the Planet" (we could not visit the amphitheatre at Ephesus in Turkey because it had been deemed unsafe due to the cracks allegedly caused by the Sting concert there, ironically as part of his "Save the Planet Tour" with that indian guy with the big lips) and "Pillock", for being oh so up himself with his bloody medieval lute playing palaver......

Actually, I think I just dislike the guy because C (and millions of other fanciable women who should only have eyes for yours truly) fancies him. Indeed, we have a clause in our wedding contract that allows C to leave me, with no hard feelings, (and no alimony) should she and Sting get it together. So Tuesday was quite a high risk event for me personally. I have a reciprocal clause, however, which allows me to leave in the much more likely event that I get it on with Kylie Minogue. Sex on a stick. And, I have come so close already. Well, I almost got her telephone number. Almost.....

It was beginning to feel like fate was about to deal a strange card when I noticed that the sex kitten herself was coming to the MEN in July. I hadn't booked tickets (her vocal capabilities are not exactly what attracts me to her) but I did think that it would be a useful fall back position should the evening not go so well and I was forced to leave C with the Sting.

And so, we set off for Manchester fairly early in order to secure a parking place at the venue. Sat Nav delivered us to the very (barriered) steps of the Arena, and I then had to resort to "the Force" (it was not with me) and the scarce brown tourist signs to find the entrance to the car park. Unfortunately this meant that we were some 10 minutes or so later and we ended up on the 7th floor.

After a quick cigarette outside - I think C was just "hanging" in case Sting walked past - we joined the queue and soon found ourselves on the inside. C went to the loo while I ordered two pints of watered lager in plastic glasses. Consumption of the lager prompted a second toilet visit for C before we took our seats (which were excellent) and waited for the support act. We waited and we waited and we waited. They were 45 minutes late.

But, the delay did not cause our spirits to flag. We people watched. We actually felt very young and fashionable compared with our fellow concert goers, many of whom were stuck in 1979 or so. We also wondered why so many people felt it necessary to wear sunglasses indoors. If nothing else, it must be a health and safety issue on the steep stairs. We also mocked the rather too many people who were picking up leaflets for the 50th Anniversary Cliff Richard Time Mchine Tour. Well, at least when he's in Manchester he is not troubling small boys in South Africa ;)

We were pleased to note that the support act was not in fact Sting's son's band as it had been scheduled to be back in October. The support group was very good. While I did, tentatively, identify them as Starsailor, it was clear that their identity was lost on most of the middle-agers in the. At least my "hip" and "cool" credentials were intact. I am positively "down" with them "man".

And, I have to say that The Police were, well, awesome. Sting is a much better vocalist than I had imagined.....and looks far too good for his age, the git. Actually, I have to say that he seems to have gone for a very striking bearded look not unlike my own! If you forgive his sweaty armpits and the rather too many twiddly guitar solos from Andy Summers, it was very, very good indeed.

After several encores we left rather later than expected. As all the eateries were closed, we returned to the car and joined the long queue to exit the car park It took about 45 minutes or so and by the time we exited the Sat Nav was very, very confused.....

Sorry Kylie, maybe next time.