My admiration of the man knows no bounds.
I’ve been afflicted with sleeping disorders all my life. Before the insomnia came along, I used to suffer with sleep-walking when I was a boy. This isn’t as bad when it comes to your well-being. After all, you may be vertical instead of horizontal, but at least you are asleep and getting some kind of rest - even if it’s not exactly of a high quality.
Most of my sleep-walking activities were confined to walking around the house and bumping into the furniture. There was one occasion when - according to my mother - I thought I was Batman and she found me in the living room at four in the morning attempting to climb onto the side-board.
She said it was dreadfully disconcerting to walk in and see me hunkered down over the fruit bowl, calling her The Joker in a gruff voice and throwing Batarangs (or rather bananas) at her from my lofty perch.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been sleeping fine for the past few weeks and even the birds outside have been unable to disturb me. I’m sure they’re extremely annoyed by this and are getting their revenge by crapping on my BMW.
4.52 am
21954 Words
Slurp.
Coffee. The insomniac’s best friend.
I guess one reason why I’ve suffered insomnia in the past is because I travel a lot. There’s nothing more guaranteed to muck up your body clock than changing times zones every few hours and giving yourself a good dose of jet-lag.
I still find it endlessly fascinating - and a bit weird - that I can leave Gatwick airport on a Monday morning, travel for twenty four hours and arrive in Sydney in the middle of the night the following Wednesday… or something along those lines anyway.
I’ve been to lots of places over the years. Sometimes on holiday with family or friends, sometimes for work - and one occasion just to get away from everything for a week on my own.
Exploring new countries, meeting new people and misinterpreting strange local customs is very entertaining.
I even enjoy the process of travelling itself, from the moment I leave my house with a heavy suitcase, to the time I walk into my air-conditioned hotel room halfway across the other side of the world - tired but happy to be somewhere where it isn’t raining and overcast.
There’s something very romantic about stepping out of your front door in the morning and being in another country by the time evening rolls around.
The reality is often not as much fun as the fantasy, but I’ll get to that in a minute…
Even when I’ve been pretty skint, I’ve usually managed to scrape the money together for a cheap break in Europe, or a long weekend with friends in Dublin.
I’m one of those people afflicted with terribly itchy feet.
It only takes about four months of living in England before I start looking out of the nearest window, wondering what the weather’s like in Quebec this time of year.
In fact, as I write this, there’s a large pile of holiday brochures sitting in the corner.
If you get bored with our little chat, by all means take a nose through and see if you can spot any bargains.
I’m after a couple of cheap weeks in the Caribbean. If you find one, just tap me on the shoulder and show me, could you?
Thanks awfully.
Travelling isn’t always fun. The romantic ideal often gives way to cold, hard reality in the blink of an eye.
Here are two very important things to remember for anyone travelling by plane in the near future:
Exit row and bulkhead seats.
These are the ones just behind the exit doors, or before the bulkhead on a plane. The bigger the plane, the more exit doors and the more bulkhead seats.
They are a gift from God for one very important reason: Space.
You’re likely to get more than enough leg room if you’re lucky enough to get a bulkhead seat to sit in. This will prevent you having your knees cramped for the nine hour trip to Florida you’re about to embark on.
I learned the lesson of the bulkhead some years ago when I took a trip out to Las Vegas, the tackiest place on earth.
My cousin James was getting married and had decided on a stag night in the gambling capital of the world. It was designed as a blow-out of epic proportions. An entire week of drunken debauchery, scantily clad women and amateurish gambling.
James and five friends had flown out on Sunday evening direct from Gatwick to Vegas. I, on the other hand, had to fly out on Wednesday, not having enough annual leave to take the whole week off.
In my infinite wisdom, I elected to find the cheapest flight I could and chose an indirect one that would see me stopping off in the cultural Mecca of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
This turned out to be a mistake of Herculean proportions.
The trip started well enough.
I’d booked a taxi to take me to the airport and it arrived on time at 5.00am - when the wood pigeon was in full song. The drive was OK, with the cabbie only asking me stupid questions once every half an hour or so. He didn’t get much of a reply, as I sat in the back dozing, with my head resting snugly on my flight bag.
Getting through check-in and boarding was also a smooth process, though I did have to waste a couple of hours in the shopping mall while they re-fuelled the bird.
I even went into The Gadget Shop on the main concourse to have a look around, which tells you how bored I was. I also had a look in Tie Rack, which really is just a shop full of ties. I have no idea how they stay in business. The world must be full of forgetful businessmen who can’t dress themselves properly.
With enough time sufficiently wasted, I made a bee-line for the gate and joined the queue at security.
I did my best to not look like a drugs dealer and managed to get through with only a few suspicious glances from the customs officials.
Things went pretty smoothly from there and I wound up boarding in good time.
I hadn’t heard of the magical bulkhead or exit row seat, so when I got onto the plane I found myself in a standard one, between a pleasant elderly American woman and an officious looking British man.
The plane took off and I settled back in my seat, looking forward to seeing strippers and drinking cheap American lager by the gallon.
…an hour goes by.
I start to feel the confines of my surroundings.
My knees are jammed up against the seat in front. I’m unable to put my arms on the rests because my fellow travellers have already claimed them. My bottom is starting to turn into marshmallow and my ears are getting blocked by cabin pressure.
In short, I'm not a happy bunny.
A further mind-bending hour goes by and I’m starting to climb the walls. The in-flight movie has started and it’s got Jennifer Aniston in it.
The fact I’ve not had a cigarette in over three hours is not helping and I’ve only had two hours sleep in the last twenty four. There’s no option for me to take a little nap here, as I’ve never been able to sleep on planes and was going through a period of insomnia at the time anyway.
No such problems for the friendly elderly American woman sitting next to me. One minute she’s awake and laughing at Aniston, the next she’s snoring like a buzz-saw. I turn to the guy on my right to share a comment about this, but he's now three chapters into a John Grisham and ignoring me completely.
Another hour goes by.
The buzz-saw becomes a chainsaw and I’m wishing I was dead.
Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, the old biddy starts to gently slide toward me.
Her head touches my shoulder and now I’m frozen in place.
I know I should politely wake her up and inform her of her invasion of my personal space - or at least give her a dig in the ribs. Unfortunately I’m British, so I sit there immobile, not wishing to be rude and wake her up from whatever pleasant dream she might be having.
I'm now in desperate need of a piss.
This presents two fundamental problems:
I have to wake up sleepy head and push p
ast the Grisham reader.
Twenty minutes go by while I wait for an opportune moment.
I’m hoping Grisham will have to get up for a tinkle himself and I can follow him to the cubicles.
This doesn’t happen.
With desperation finally overcoming my innate Britishness, I try to get up.
The American’s head slithers down my shoulder until it reaches a painful angle, which brings her out of her REM filled happiness with a start.
She offers me a bleary look, turns her head and immediately goes off again.
With her safely dealt with, it’s time to take on the literature fan.
Mumbling apologies, I stand up and start to edge past him, deathly afraid turbulence will kick in and I’ll end up sitting in his lap. Thankfully though, I’m spared this.
I do however lose my grip on the seat in front and thump the teenager sitting there in the side of the head.
She lets out a cry of astonishment, which makes me jerk backwards and poke my arse into Grisham’s face. He lets out a muffled exclamation and I swiftly move my hips forward, clouting my genitals on the back of the chair.
This makes me jerk backwards again.
Now it looks like I’m trying to hump a British Airways economy class seat.
Getting my wayward body back under control, I say sorry to both irate teen and dumbfounded Grisham reader and finish negotiating the exit from my sky-bound prison.
With both of them giving me daggers, I lope off up the aisle to the toilet, where I hurriedly shut myself off from the outside world and urinate with a bliss that’s virtually indescribable.
I leave the cubicle, resigned to another six hours in the seat from Hell, when I spot three empty ones in the central section of the plane.
I couldn’t have been happier to see those seats if they’d been three feet wide and had a massage unit built into them.
I gather up my belongings from the overhead compartment - trying not to look at my teenage sparring partner or Grisham - and hurry back to the three seats at speed, wanting to get there before any of the other cattle reach the same conclusion and steal them out from under me.
While the rest of the flight to Minnesota was not what I would call pleasant, at least I had the luxury of a bit of space to stretch out my legs, and didn’t have the worry of mortally offending someone every time I felt the urge to take a leak.
Arriving at Minnesota was when the stupidity of getting a connecting flight became apparent.
When you’ve just spent nine hours on a flight with your legs cramped and your brain slowly turning to fudge, it isn’t nice to know you have a further three hours to go before you reach your final destination.
Before even getting on the domestic flight, I had to negotiate my way around Minneapolis airport, which was gigantic. I think I’m right in saying that it covered most of the state itself and requires detailed maps to find your way around its mammoth terminals.
None of which is very helpful when you’re knackered, in desperate need of a smoke and wishing you’d stayed in bed watching Desperate Housewives.
Never mind, I thought, I’m sure if I get lost I can ask a friendly airport staff member the way.
I did get lost. In roughly sixteen seconds.
Admittedly, I didn’t help my cause by leaving the airport for a swift cigarette in the freezing cold mid-west weather outside.
Totally baffled by concourses, travelators and ill-conceived signage, I approached a security guard to ask him directions.
‘Hello mate, help me out here, will you?’ I said in jovial fashion.
‘What’cho want?’ he replied aggressively, not really living up to my idealised concept of a helpful staff member.
‘Er, can you tell me how to get to Gate 43?’
‘You some kind of fucking moron, pal?’
Okay, so the security guards at Minneapolis are incredibly rude, then.
Point duly noted.
I immediately saw red. I do not need a fat security guard taking a pop at me when I’m exhausted, lost and confused.
‘What did you call me?’ I hissed.
‘A moron, pal. A goddamn moron.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are, mate?’
My feathers are ruffled, my back is up and I’m ready to start swinging.
‘I’m a guy who found out last night his woman is fucking another guy and is pretty damn pissed… I’m also the guy with a gun.’
He points at the black metal killing machine parked in a holster on his belt.
I’d forgotten about that.
Forgotten that in America, they’ll give anyone who works in security a gun, even if they look like Charles Manson and twitch slightly when somebody mentions ethnic minorities.
It’s amazing what the effect of a firearm can have on an angry temperament - when the gun is carried by the other person, that is.
My body language changes from 'irate British person in need of accurate directions’ to ‘terrified British person, about to start crying like a girl'.
I find myself apologising a lot in life for mistakes I make, but I’ve never felt saying sorry was ever as vital to my continued well-being as it was at this moment.
He cuts me off in mid-flow.
I think he realised he’d pretty much threatened an airport customer with his gun and started to back-peddle magnificently in an effort of self-preservation.
We both stand there spouting apologies - and then accepting them from one another with good grace. I even went as far as to commiserate with him on the infidelity of his partner.
I suggested he should go and have it out with her.
Without the gun, that is.
I finished by asking - very politely this time - where Gate 43 might be. He gave me a wry grin and pointed upwards.
Above us was a very large, very brightly lit sign with a huge arrow pointing up the concourse with Gates 39-45 in very large writing beside it.
I thanked him sheepishly and wandered away, not surprised he’d thought I was a moron. I was grateful he hadn’t just pulled out the gun and shot me point-blank on the understandable grounds I was an unobservant idiot.
My luck changed for the better once I’d boarded the connecting flight. I found to my astonishment and delight that the miracle of bulkhead seats had been visited on me for the first time.
It was like all my Christmases and birthdays had been rolled into one, as the stewardess led me to H8, next to the exit doors.
I couldn’t believe it. It was so good I still remember the seat number to this day.
After nine hours of feeling like a battery hen, I had a seat that allowed me not only to stretch my legs out, but the chance to get up when I felt like a little stretch.
Heaven.
A supremely smug smile spread across my face and I made a point of flashing it at as many of the other passengers as I could during the flight to Vegas. I was almost sorry to leave the plane, wanting to ride my unexpected change of fortune for as long as possible.
I got out of McCarran airport quite quickly and less than an hour after touching down, I was in my hotel room with a can of beer shoved in my hand by a semi-drunk cousin James.
What happened during the actual four days I spent there is a story all its own and I’ll tell you about it later.
Promise.
6.21 am
24495 Words
Twelve hours in!
Twelve hours and listen - it sounds like we’ve got some friends celebrating the milestone with us.
Can you hear them?
The dawn chorus has started with a vengeance and my feathered friends are heralding a new day in the only way they know how.
Thousands of birds, all basically shouting:
‘This is my tree! Fuck off!’
Kind of takes the romance away when you know that, doesn’t it?
Want some breakfast? I know it’s probably too early and the sun’s only just over the horizon, but I’ve got some pop-tarts in the fridge. You
’ll have to eat them cold, as the toaster is still knackered. It met with Spalding’s towering rage after destroying a raisin crumpet I was particularly looking forward to. You can try sticking the pop tart in the George Foreman, but I’m not making any promises it’ll work.
I’ll just smoke another cigarette if you don’t mind.
While we’re on the subject of cigarettes… you might want to strap yourself in, this is likely to get a bit bumpy.
Smoking.
I love it.
Sorry to all you non or ex-smokers out there, but I do.
Yes, I know its bad for me and yes, I know it’s expensive.
My lungs may be full of tar and my chest may wheeze like an asthmatic asbestos cleaner, but I love it anyway.
Partially, this is out of spite.
I can be a very stubborn man and when it comes to smoking, this part of my personality comes out in spades. Chances are that if smoking was still an accepted part of society no-one complained about, I would have quit years ago.
But its not, is it?
Oh no.
It seems there’s nothing worse these days than pulling out a pack of ciggies and lighting one up. People look at you like you’re a leper. They point and wail in disgust as you draw on your little white tube of chemical nastiness. They pompously tell you it’s affecting their health through passive smoking.
Good.
Fuck ‘em.
The more they moan, the more I smoke.
If people would just shut up about it and leave me be, I’d be more amenable to putting the packet back in my coat and chewing some sugar-free gum instead.
Everybody has an opinion on whether you can quit or not, like they have some divine oracle-like wisdom about your chances of kicking the habit that you’re not privy to.
Just before I got married, I decided to quit - well, I thought about it anyway.
I made the mistake of talking to people about my intentions.
Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) Page 8
