Last supper

So I've moved my stuff out and Jo's moved her stuff in. That night I'm a guest in what was my flat, the following day I'm leaving the country. Not before the last supper though, courtesy of Ros & Biggles.

Bole and me fearfully late on account of traffic and my mistaking 'Graham Ave' for 'Graham Rd'. I mean, who puts two street called 'Graham' next to each other. Errr...Mitcham Borough Council? Rain teeming down not helping matters. Bole nearly punches me out! Delightful evening after that though.

Here's a snap of the darling couple and also one of me and Bole after entertaining ourselves with Biggles' Nose Operated Peep Show, the result of which is unbeknowst blusher applied to the cheeks. Need more explanation? See his website.

From whence they came they return

The boxes, The Boxes, THE BOXES!! I moved them in under duress - complaints from Ma that they were cluttering up her attic. Better her attic than my bedroom but she was insistent. Five years later it seemed they were destined once again for her attic, unopened and untroubled by human hand or eye in all that time. Didn't even have a clue what was in them. They were such a comfortable feature, haphazardly balanced around the bedroom, I forgot they were there. Others however never failed in reminding me. Hmmm. The time had come to rifle through them and rationalise.

I donned full N.B.C. suit - one should always be prepared for whatever one may encounter in cardboard boxes and for all I knew they contained Saddam's ellusive Weapons of Mass Destruction.

In truth they contained nothing more dangerous than mountains of paper that shoud have been filed, leaky pens and a pair of curly toed slippers from Rajasthan (amongst other assorted gubbins that filled up the six boxes or so). I spent hours upon hours, nay days tearing up paper into indecipherable confetti [Memo to self: buy shredder next time].

So, with the help of Jo, my clobber was shifted back to Ma's and the sun was surely setting on the Borough Bunker era...for now.

Pic of Ma, me & Harry on the day of the shift, Ma managing to smile through gritted teeth at receiving the unwanted consignment of chatels. Bless.

Bat fangs

The things people can lose on the beach. I mean your top set, fair enough but your toy Batman, well really, it's an outrage!!

Feast yer pies

Ooooh pics. Oooh dear.

Notice the attmepted Anders Frisk Salute from Simon. Truly you are one of us. I'll let the rest speak for themselves!

Ros (another Ros) and Biggles during the strange gravity anomaly.

My head's fizzing from trying to figure this out. I'm going to lie down.

The story cont. - leaving unpreparations

I was rudely awoken on my first day of 'freedom from the shackles of coporate bondage' by the phone ringing off the wall. It was Iwan of course. He suggested I wasn't going to make lunch with him as it was now 12:30pm, the agreed time for lunch, and he had plainly woken me from my fitful slumbers. Ooops. My head hurt from the inside and from without and I had a goodly bruise on my right forearm and hand. Nice one. A sign of things to come perhaps?

By the way, I had chosen to end my period of paid employment on a Thursday so I had Friday off, thereby giving myself a long weekend. I realised that with unemployment stretching infront of me like a wide and scary ocean, that was a mangled concept.

So, I had two weeks to get my act together: book a ticket round the world, clear my flat out from the boxes that seemed to adorn my bedroom and hadn't been touched since I moved into the flat five years ago, buy some magic tricks, try and squeeze as much high jinks and high balls in with friends as I could and generally close my account with London Life.

So that Saturday I walked into a deserted City branch of Trailfinders where I was helped by a stout youg fellow called Jonathan Legge. At first I think he was a little irritated by my answers to his questions of 'Where would you like to go and for how long?', these being most often 'Dunno' and 'Not sure' respectively. I'm sure he had me down as a timewasting gibbon but he persisted galantly and after an hour and a half of noodling through the vagaries of assorted airlines (and managing to wring some locations and dates out of me) we had an itinerary. [See below.] Well, 'Carpe Diem' has never been a familiar catch phrase of mine but I Carped the Diem pretty well and walked out in possession of a round the world ticket with Star Alliance. D-Day - Thur Sèpt 14, 2006. This gave me 12 days to procrastinate and panic.

Somehow, but mainly due to the firm guiding hand of Jo who was taking over my flat (and at times you could call it arse kicking), things came together pretty well with not too many pre-departure jobs dropping off the bottom of the To-Do list other than innoculations (a mere trifle I think you will agree).

One of the things as an Englishman that you should always do before embarking on an overseas voyage of some length (any length in fact) is to load up your memory banks with the varieties of British ales, their different tastes and hues, their bouquets and their dizzying effects. That way in times of gloom, when all that is available is fermented tapioca leaves strained through the sacrimonial sock of the village elder, you can look back, think of a cool, nutty brew with a light creamy head and smile (then of course get get stuck into Tapioca-sock-juice with gusto). One of the best ways to 'load up' is at a beer festival and there's none better that I've been to (and let me say, I have never been to a bad one) than the Chappel Beer Festival in Essex. What's even better is that it's run in the old sheds and workshops of a railway museum so there's plenty to look at other than the beards, Arran sweaters and sandals. Come on, we all love trains and you can actually sit and sup in the old carriages! Actually, to be fair we did see a woman there or perhaps it was a man without a beard. Same thing in those circles. I naturally was sporting a fine beard of worryingly russet tone. Many thanks to Ads & Danny for a top evening and I shall be sure to be back next year in time for a repeat trip, mark my words.

So onto my formal leaving bash on Sat 9 Sept, 2006 which was held at the traditional Royal Oak in Borough, I mean where else, it is (was) my local after all. Frank the landlord was suitably anxious his retirement fund was going to dry up in my abscence and so we tried to top up his coffers that night to make up for it. Many thanks to all those who came along (sample of pics above), appreciate it immensely and special thanks to Biggles for the magic tricks that were, well, simply magic and enchanted young an not so young alike.

Things went downhill past the witching hour with a dwindling body of revellers moving on to the less salubrious surroundings of The Dover Castle and then three stalwarts who shall remain nameless for fear of jeopardising future public office (Baz and Martin 'How Very Dare You' Grix...errr...and me) were seen in Belushi's on Borough High Street mingling with the Arabian Princes and Norwegian Coronettas that frequent that high class establishment. The three stooges were also seen stumbling about, shouting 'Up The Jihad', mooning like great fools into the camera lense, being told to stop running about madly by a passing police car and wrestling in the street like common rakes. Once again I awoke with a sore head and numerous UDIs.

[Right, time once again to call it a day. Soon, very soon I hope, I might get round to writing about some of the travel element of my trip...hopefully before it's ended! Oh and photos are proving very tricky to figure out. I tried setting up some Yahoo Photos do dah to no avail - need to install some photo viewer. Have patience. If you've read this far you clearly have the patience of Jobe.]

Major Fraud!

Out with A.W.T. and Hey Ho Here We Go with Major Charles Ingram. What a scholar and a gent. More look-a-likies as and when. (Really should put my energies into getting this bus up to speed.)

OK, time to get the story straight

So, what's this all about, really? It's a travelogue I guess, much that the idea of telling the world all about what I'M up to (look at ME ME ME!!!) smacks of narcisism, self obsession and doesn't really appeal. However, it is a rather convenient way to keep family and friends informed of the fact that I was still alive at least at the time of my last post, where I am (or was when I last updated this thing) and where to send the money coz I've had my wallet stolen\blown all my cash on painted trollopes...again. (Bad Pants!)

So how come I've ended up in this position? Well, I think simple boredom with the traditional working model of the late 20th\early 21st century - sit behind a desk for 8.5 hrs a day, stare at a computer monitor and do little good to man nor beast, take two blocks of two weeks holiday a year, die a slow and quiet death. Decided, after a lot of badgering from certain friends (Iwan for the last year or so, Adam for the past 10 years!), to resign my position of Marketing Communications Manager (whatever that bollox really means) for small Camden, London based legal publishers and hit the road for an indefinite period. My ticket does say I'm returning to Blighty on April 24th 2007 though. Maybe. Maybe sooner. Maybe later but that's the fun: not really having a fixed itinerary.

So this saw me handing in my notice at the end of July with a GeTFOOH (Get The F#ck Out Of Here) date of Aug 31 2006. Another two weeks for getting my shit together, sorting out the flat, having the big Becket House Car Park Give Away, packing some smalls, buying some magic tricks, having six farewell knees-ups, that type of thing - that sugested me leaving the country on Sept 14th 2006. No going back.

I shan't go into the sordid details of all the leaving drinks (errr...actually I will) other than to describe a few highlights. 12 years of diligent employment at work saw me awarded a notebook, a pack of Bic biros, an electronic travel games machine and a voucher for Dixons. Not that I'm a total ingrate but put it this way, the first three items didn't actually make it out of the office with me. Works leaving drinks saw me giddy with excitement right up to the point I was simply giddy with booze. Everyone was buying me shots and I did warn them that I would not be responsible for the consequences, although nobody seemed to step up and take responsibility for the staggering fool with an egg on his head after falling down the stairs to the loo at Quinns in Camden. A kindly soul did prevent me from simply sleeping in the street outside the pub where they found me curled up and bedded down for the night.

They: "You can't sleep here, come on, I'll get you a cab from inside the pub."
My replied: "But I'm very comfortable and was really enjoying that sleep."

Sense prevailed (from them at least) and instead of being left to the whims of Kentish Town's knaves and footpads, I was poured into a cab pointing in a southerly direction. My last memory was witnessing a clandestine office romance being forged on the pub forecourt and also someone on all fours being sick in the gutter. Glad others were suffering as much as me. So ended my career to date.

[Right, beach is calling, friends Joe & Dominique to meet, surf to enjoy, and a hunt for fearlessly large prawns to embark on. More of the 'story-to-date' later. For now, hasta luego from Baja Mexico.]

Dog's breakfast in a wok!

OK, so who's the joker that's added a picture of THE twat Anthony Worral Thompson to my profile? Soooo funny! Give yourself a gold star.