Canals are miserable

I always thought the stretch of the Kennet and Avon Canal when it runs past Colthrop in Thatcham was the most depressing stretch of canal in the world. All canals are miserable. It's part of what makes Birmingham so desperate. Rivers are beautiful, they have life. Canals are man made and dead - the water is stagnant and enclosed in concrete. There's not a canal in the world as wonderful as a river - to say nothing of the sea. I've never been to Venice and probably never will.

The Kennet and Avon lost top spot for me yesterday. I was in Amsterdam. The stretch of canal running through the red light district is one of the saddest places on earth. Why people go there is beyond me. It offers the same as a weekend in Darfur might - a chance to observe humans who's misery is without end. It's a place of dead eyes.

What's more, there's a nice end and a shit end. The shit end is truly tragic. The women aknow they're at the shit end too. The divide is obvious. The fat, old and ugly don't even get to degrade themselves with the prettier people.

As Cardinal Keith O'Brien said "There have been times that my sexual conduct has fallen below the standards expected of me" but prostitutes hold no appeal. I have friends who have made use of their services but I can think of little worse. It'd be like the worst one night stand or passionless night at the fag end of a relationship - functionary and without laughter.

How to ruin a special meal

On the Saturday night of a lovely weekend in Orleans we decided to book a bit of a posh meal. We always eat well in France but this was going to be proper posh. Amuse bouches, a main course with a bit of theatre (involving a teapot!); the lot.

We started off with the best of intentions. I used my GCSE French to book the table and then we decided to hire bikes to cycle along the Loire.

We failed to hire bikes due to the 'Boris Bike' system being harder to crack than WW2 codes. We asked at the Tourist Information and were informed that it is hard and lots of people struggle. No offer of help or a solution was forthcoming.

In the end the sun came out and we found a pub by the river. It was a lovely day and the beer went down very easily. We decided to find another pub. The rugby was on so we got comfy.

At this point we were joined by some French (professional they claimed) rugby referees. Soon they were making fun of me - calling me "Mr PeePee" because I wee a lot - while making friends with Helen. Oh, how the good looking one enjoyed asking me if I was ill with a bladder problem. They were as unlikely to move as a Frenchman sat next to a "blonde" with giant breasts. (To almost quote Blackadder). Obviously I had to keep drinking with them and see off my beer when peer pressure demanded. When I made an error and accidentally ordered a pint of fruit beer this certainly had to be seen away; even if I was almost sick.

Soon though it was 8pm - the time of our reservation

Memories of the meal are hazy at best. I know we started with a Kir Royale each, WHY!

I woke at about 3am still clothed. At this point, Helen informed me that the not inexpensive meal had been put on my credit card before rolling over and going back to sleep

Brief respite

Having landed at 5am this morning I'm off to Paris tomorrow morning. This time though it's for pleasure.

About an hour ago I got out my empty case and put in the clothes I need for 3 days. I've used about a quarter of the case and the whole thing must have taken all of 10 minutes.

For the last hour Wilko has been clattering around in the bedroom with the case. Things are being dropped, sometimes from a great height judging by the noises. Every so often she comes in wearing different odd ensembles asking if they look "French". All combinations she'd never countenance in the UK.

We're in the final stage now providing she can fit everything into two thirds of the case I left her. But, to be honest, this is unlikely

Cultural Learnings of America

To follow on from my last post I ended up going back to the bar and drinking for some hours with a bartender at my hotel. We had a good time and we kept doing shots together (their idea). Some of these shots were moonshine. I ended up spending most of the next day sleeping with the curtains drawn on my ocean view Venice Beach room, just the gentle hum of tattoo parlours in the background. In my head at the time I tried to make peace with my pathetic state by thinking of it as Bukowski-esque.

Anyhow, while getting pissed we discussed differences. In particular his view that British people are generally arseholes who don't tip. I offered a Churchillian defence of our island people

However, I can see his point. We don't tip enough in the US and that's a problem for the bartender. They're relying on tips to make up for the shortfall in their wages. Also, they're expected to give tips to the kitchen staff and anyone else who helps with their section. They'll have to give this whether we give it to them or not. At worst they claim they could end up down.

The issue here is framing- at the moment, the British consumer in the US' mentality at the point a tip should be given is all wrong, and it's not our fault. In the UK when we buy something we're given a price and we pay it. In the US that isn't what happens. We see a price, we then receive a bill for more as tax is then added on the top. What this then means is that we're disinclined to then add more.

Why the US feel the need to add taxes at the 'cash register' has always puzzled me. Even the copywriters of 2nd hand car dealership posters have twigged that 'No Hidden Extras' appeals. It makes the consumer feel they've got a fair deal and are in control. Given that anytime we pay with a foreign currency these are areas of concern already the mentality of a Brit when handed the 'check' is actually pretty understandable. It's just a shame the loser is the bartender.

(The link between the picture and the writing is tenuous at best but so what) 

First Afternoon on Venice Beach

Somehow I fell in with three brothers from Louisiana this afternoon. Apparently one of them lived in LA and had been a record producer or technician or something like that on Foreigner’s biggest album. They're all in their 60s and encouraged me onto Conoagitas at 2pm. These are basically margaritas with a Corona poured in the top. We were in the Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Emporium on Santa Monica pier, this was like getting pissed in the Rainforest café in Leicester Square. Familes made merry around us and we got drunk. A couple of the old boys cracked onto the plump waitress with the perfect teeth from Indianapolis. I didn’t bother.

After Bubba’s I still had the 3 mile walk back from Santa Monica to my hotel on Venice. I was (and am as I type this) pissed. The walk took a long time. As my dad’s son I stopped at every convenience for a piss and still nearly ended up having to relieve myself on Muscle Beach. 

I ended up in the Venice Beach Ale bar, already drunk. Here, I sat alone drinking IPA. Occasionally the bar man spoke to me. The barmaids realized there were better tips to be had elsewhere.

Eventually I made it back to my hotel and watched the sun set into the Pacific Ocean from the roof terrace. I got a good spot. Some couples (always the uglier ones) made it clear they thought a lone (drunk) traveller like me should fuck off to the back so that they could enjoy the kind of twee moment of togetherness that leads to tedious and unimaginative sex. I ignored them.

St Louis

St Louis is a sad town. It's not dissimilar to Wolverhampton or Middlesbrough; the people are the endearing feature.

 I'm staying right by the baseball stadium but during the off season this feels like a town with not much to say for itself 

I  went for a walk yesterday but had to stop a few blocks out of the main downtown. The streets become quiet and there really are people huddled round burning drums. Its the economy apparently.

I did head to 'The Loop' which is meant to be the 'alternative' and even 'Hipster' area. Hmmmm. The only place to get coffee is a Starbucks playing John Lennon, Culture Club and Tracy Chapman. It seems Midwest 'hipster' is a bit like Radio 2.  I've never felt cooler. The shops all sold t-shirts that made weak references to cannabis use. Do you remember the Adihash t-shirt of the early 90's? A big seller on Newbury market at the time. 

So, that's. St Louis 

Defeated

I will be leaving St Louis a defeated man first thing tomorrow.

That was a full rack of Baby Back Ribs, Onions Rings and "Fully Loaded" (w/bacon, sour cream and "cheese") fries

Onions rings left, fries left and 2 ribs left when I could eat no more.

I also then had the granola and fresh berries in low fat yoghurt with flax seeds for breakfast today.

Oh God!