almost witty

Suw’s posted image showing how the British terror level is rated has popped up in a few
places.

But I have one tiny little problem with it. We’re now all supposed to relax with a nice hot cup of tea. But aside from fulfilling American stereotypes about the Brits - what on earth is a macaroon?! - there’s this burning yellow thing in the sky, and at times like this, you do not want to sit in a little twee cafe with a hot cup of tea and a digestive biscuit.

No, damnit, you want a beer. And not one of those nampy-pampy American beers that comes in a half-a-pint bottle and has more fizz in it than an Alka-Seltzer. No, you want a full pint of beer that comes in a pint glass.

More to the point, you don’t want to consume said pint inside a hot sweaty dark bar. No, you want to be in a lovely beer garden sat on a wooden bench watching the world go by and chatting to your mates.

That’s how we do things round here, old boy. You can take your tea, and store it for the winter. It’s a pint we want, and we want it now.

I love going to the airport. I love flying on a plane. I’m not sure why - but it’s a great way to observe how some people live, and the weird stuff that goes down. Especially on American air carriers. To whit, on my recent transAtlantic flight:

- the foolish foolish couple, who proposed to each other halfway through an eight-hour flight. Thankfully, she said Yes - but can you imagine if she’d declined? Stuck sitting next to someone who’d rejected your overtures of love for the next four hours, inside a hollow tube and unable to get out. Very French.

It’s not even particularly romantic. In the first-class cabin of a Concorde jet, that’s one thing. But in cattle class amongst the hoi polloi and a family of seven chavtastic Brits going to Florida?

Having said that, you do get free champagne out of it. I need to find a female partner in crime, get a diamond ring, and swindle restaurants across the world out of free champagne. It worked once.

- The SkyMall catalogue which seems to be endemic to all American aeroplanes is a hilarious hoot. All these utterly useless frivolous items on sale - like stairs for your pet so your obnoxious little cat/dog can climb up onto the sofa. Ion purifiers. Tranquil sound machines. No wonder the end of Western civilisation is nigh. Mind you, I imagine half the reason I want to live in the United States is so that I can purchase and use these projects, and live the quasi-Ikea lifestyle.

- the warning from the cabin crew not to congregate near toilets, as per anti-terrorist regulations. I couldn’t believe it when this policy was announced a year or so ago, so to see them doing it was just insane. Fortunately, it was never actually policed as far as I could tell.

- I got finger-printed and photo-ID’d when I arrived at US immigration. To be fair, the process was painless, quick and easy (hurrah for digital technology) but it still felt a little degrading. Plus, of course, the computer told the immigration agent exactly how long I’d spent in the US the last time.

- There was one elderly woman who’d booked two seats so she could have a seat all to herself. This strikes me as a tad expensive - wouldn’t it be cheaper to book a first-class seat?

One huge bone of contention in my life is head-rubs - good or bad?

One faction says it’s a sign of good-natured affection. The other says it’s an incredibly patronising gesture that shows your place compared to the head-rubber - usually downwards.

What do you think?

Joining in on blog cliche no.173, the first ugly sign of Christmas reared itself into my ordinary life today when, having a coffee at a train station waiting with someone, the music playing was a cover version of Silent Night.

For goodness’ sake, Halloween isn’t even over yet.

I had a false start earlier this month when I heard the best Christmas song of all time - Fairytale of New York (a song which has on occasion brought a moistening of my eye, depending on how drunk I am) was playing on Radio 1 in mid-October, but fortunately, it turned out to be a “Identify this song” moment in a music quiz of some kind.

And so far this year, I’ve yet to decide where to go on holiday, let alone Christmas. Although flights to San Francisco for November are now a bargain £170 on British Airways, apparently.

When I went up to the Edinburgh Festival two weekends ago for one of the largest arts/comedy/theatre festivals ever, I stayed with my old schoolchum in Leith. Which involved walking up a hill for 30 mins to all the action at the Royal Mile, seeing some stuff, then walking down the hill for 30 mins to catch up with my mate. Then walking back up the hill with his supernaturally gorgeous friends (imagine a Scottish version of Miranda from Sex And The City), getting drunk till 3-4am, and then somehow stumbling back down the hill afterwards, bloody knackered. Suppose it builds up your calf muscles though.

Euphemism is going up to Edinburgh this weekend to go see her damn lucky boyfriend’s play. She’s not even hit 25 yet, but she’s staying at The Scotsman, quite possibly one of the poshest places in Edinburgh. It’s only a minutes’ walk to the Royal Mile, and it even has its own cinema. I am sooooo jealous. And annoyed. Why am I earning a crust and staying at work till 8pm?