Blue Skies

Day 1. Flying from London Stanstead, which has grown from a tent off the M11 motorway to a full-sized airport in the last 8 years. The last time I used it was on my first skiing trip (where I managed to go the whole holiday without injury, only to pop a tendon running for a flight at the airport.)

This airport is beloved by the budget airlines, since it can still be called "London" even though anyone unfortunate enough to arrive thinking they're near to the great city will find themselves some 50 miles away.

As it is the airport of choice by the budget airlines, it is naturally full of chavs and people too cheap to fly on a proper airline, like me. And so it was that I climbed aboard one of RyanAir's bargain buses and flew to Pisa airport. Though my snobby side hates to admit it, the flight was fine and the plane, though a little elderly, didn't give cause for concern.

Pisa airport was reassurringly Italian. Total chaos. Virtually no passport control or customs to speak of and full of people milling around in confusion. Wonderful. I love this country.

There is a saying in Europe - the perfect Europe is where the houses are British, the cooks are French, the lovers are Italian and it is all run by the Germans. European hell is where the cooks are British, the lovers German and it is all run by the Italians. Or something like that.

I found my farmhouse, after a 2 hour drive and something called a 'raccordo' which I decided was Italian for "really shitty bit of road". The bear approves of the view. Particulary since it was raining in England when we left...

Bear Sez Ciao

The bear and I are off on our travels. Having spent the last two months averaging 20 hours a day at work, the boss has sent us off for a recharge.

I need it too. The country I live in is starting to resemble a tin-pot dictatorship; I've always been fiercely proud of the fact that the police aren't armed and are a respected organisation.

But now... now I listen to the radio and hear senior policemen cheerfully saying that anyone who looks a bit funny will be shot on sight. In the head too, in case they're carrying a bomb.

Now, the whole reason we don't have the death penalty here in the UK is the "what if we made a mistake" scenario. You can't very well say "Sorreeee" to a corpse. Unless your name is Romero and you've made another really bad zombie film.

And yet after a man whose only crime was to have an expired visa and to run when a copper shouts at him gets pinned down on the floor of a tube train and shot in the head/executed by the police, we have the chap who runs the police saying "Yep, and we'll do it again too"

I tell you this in truth, I'm now more frightened of the police than I am of nutters blowing themselves up.

So I need a holiday. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to Tuscany. To an isolated farmhouse. With a swimming pool. And a fridge full of beer.

Ciao, baby.

Quite Good?

I once saw a show where the star was given three wishes. One of his wishes was to have his own background music, which would change according to what he was doing.

I often wondered if the show had been post watershed we might have seen a sex scene backed by Captain Kirk's fight music. That tune was wasted in its role of drowning out the creaking of Bill Shatner's corset.

Anyhow, I was tempted by the guys in the office to play a video game the other night. One of those 'run around and shoot each other' games. The game itself I could take or leave, but what I really liked was the voice that said "Impressive!" in rich, dark tones whenever one did something 'cool' (shooting a number of avatars in a row, I believe.)

I would wish for that in real life. Whenever I do something even mildly good, I'd like that voice to say "Impressive". If I park the car first time, without the usual 18 attempts: "Impressive". If I select the fruit and salad rather than the All-Day-Breakfast-Lardfest-Baguette": "Impressive". Come up with a witty put-down to The Ex less than 20 minutes after the moment has passed: "Impressive".

Yeah, that would be good. Impressive, even.

Can You Hear Something Whistling?

Geeks that we are, we all gathered around the monitor to watch the Space Shuttle launch.

The boss, still flushed with success having found an American drink called "Spaz" on his recent US trip (thus earning kudos in the office) wandered over to see what we were up to.

"Oh God," he muttered, "You're not watching one of Newly's rockets, are you?"

(For the uninformed, I have an interest in spaceflight bordering on the obsessional - deep down I'm still the little boy who wanted to be a spaceman, but settled for being a computer programmer instead)

I was about to answer when a colleague piped up: "We're not watching a launch. We're watching 7 Americans getting strapped to half a million gallons of high explosive."

There were murmers of assent. I was a little disappointed with the cynicism of my co-workers; but I guess its the same reason why most people like watching motor racing. Its not the race, but the chance of a fatal accident.

Sadly for them, but happily for a starry eyed enthusiast like me, the launch was flawless. Right up until a chunk of foam the size of a small car appeared to break off of the big orange tank. Think it missed the orbiter though.

Listen carefully and you can actually hear the clenching of sphincters in Houston...

You. Will. Be. Served. A. Beer.

"Another beer, sir?" the Dalek asked, the red lights on its head flashing obsequiously.

I peered blearily at the glass. And then back at the inexpensive BBC special effect standing hopefully being the bar. Do Daleks stand, or do they merely 'be'?

"I think I've had enough." I replied, getting to my feet rather unsteadily.

Of course, this wasn't an alcohol fuelled hallucination. No, the landlord of my local had acquired one of the terrors of my youth as a prop for a party at the weekend.

I love Daleks. I love the way that while America devised ever more unpleasant and horrific creatures to terrify its television watching public, the cash-strapped BBC stuck doggedly to the formula of a dustbin with flashing lights on its head and a sink plunger as its major weapon.

And its testimony to the inherent silliness of the British (me included) that we regularly found ourselves watching the screen though hands over our eyes as the wheeled absurdities lurched around the screen; miraculously climbing stairs and negotiating rocky terrain, bellowing 'Exterminate' and knocking chunks of polystyrene off the scenery. Not noted for their stealth were the Daleks.

Alas, I didn't watch the new series of Doctor Who. But I am pleased to have made the acquaintance of a Dalek and, as gratitude for al the entertainment its brethren gave me during the 70s and early 80s, bought it a beer.

I hope it doesn't rust.

You Couldn't Make It Up - Part 84

The Ex's ever-increasing bulk filled the doorway. She was somewhat pale.

"Have you heard the news?" she said
"Mmm?" I replied, peering round her to see if First-Born was trying to make her escape
"They're trying to track down 100 blood donors who might have New Variant CJD!" The Ex explained
"So?"
"*I'm* a blood donor. Supposing its me?"
"Mmm," I mused, " 'Mad Cow Disease' - well, it would certainly explain a lot"

At that point First-Born squeezed past The Ex's bulk and headed for the car, thus saving me from a potentially difficult conversation.

I must stop with this Ex-baiting. Its potentially bad for my health.

Now I Am All Growed Up

Current favourite album: Dub Side Of The Moon by the Easy Star All-Stars.

Taking Pink Floyd's slighty trippy 70s album and giving it a reggae spin, while some way short of genius, is certainly a marvellous way to de-stress.

I'm particularly impressed with the opening to 'Money', where the famous sound of coins being scooped out of a cash tray and a register rung is replaced by the sound of a lighter, the bubbles of a bong, an intake of breath and subsequent coughing.

Childish, but lets face it; thats what most of those students who got all intense about Pink Floyd were doing anyway.

Speaking of childish, I think I might be approaching maturity. I gave one of the team a crisp 5 pound note for the collection of lunch. He returned with a single shiny pound coin and a pile of lard.

I took the pound coin and gibbered: "Rich! Rich! I shall leave you all now and spend my new found wealth on fast cars, drugs and hookers!"

My colleague raised an eyebrow: "Where are you going to find a hooker for 1 pound?"

Now, ordinarily I would have quipped: "I hear your Mother'll go all the way for less..." but maturity intervened as I realised that this could be quite a rude thing to say. So I didn't.

Instead, I suggested his sister was a lady of negotiable affection. Better, yes?